Angst Half Off
by Mikomi's Pen
Summary: Because sometimes, people need to take a moment to go "WTF?", even in this morose fandom. Fourth wall need not apply. Spoilers and crack like whoa.
1. More Offensive Than the Average Battle

Spoilers: OMG SPOILERS EVERWHAR. This whole fanfic is so spoiler-ful, it's like...old milk. Yes. Oh, yes. Like a refrigerator during a hurricane. Spoiled like hella yo. Spoiled all the way up to episode 51...AND BEYOND.

There will be more than just this first chapter. Oh yes.

* * *

**"With More Offensive Than the Average Battle"**

Roy Mustang was tactful, and calm. He had extraordinary patience and a long memory, and fantastic dental hygiene to boot. He had perspective. He had a brilliant sense of humor.

It took a lot to get Roy Mustang pissed. Yet here he was. Pissed.

See, the one way to get under Roy Mustang's skin was to make a fool of him, and they just had. (Well, make a fool out of him, and take away his lucky hair gel. That hair gel was the source of all his sexiness, goddammit, so when a certain short alchemist tried to steal it, he had _every right _to go medieval on said hypothetical short alchemist's ass. But he digressed. Mentally.) They shouldn't have made a fool out of him, but they did. He was, apparently, the only one who didn't know what to do, and for some reason, when they asked you to introduce yourself, they had some magical formula that everyone in the world was supposed to know.

So when he'd stood up and said that he was Colonel Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist, 29, bachelor, _straight-_thank-you-very-much-fanfiction-writers-at-least-most-of-the-time-except-when-the-guy-is-TOTALLY-hot-and-willing-but-anyway, for some reason, that was wrong. Nooo, no no, he wasn't supposed to give his last name. Of course not. It was just to be Roy, that's it, no ranks, no titles, no marital status (not that it was worth it, anyway, with the only female in the room that hippy-dippy cracked-out peace-and-love facilitator up there) – just Roy, which seemed completely inappropriate. Really – the only person to whom he was _just Roy _was his mother and Hughes.

And that thought, of course, made him want a drink. How ironic.

And there was some overbearing bastard to his right who kept nudging and glaring whenever he said nothing as each person introduced themselves. Funny; normally, people got angry when he _wouldn't _shut up.

Eventually, the thing came back to him again, and Hippy-Dippy La La asked him ever-so-gently if he'd gotten the hang of it at this point. Bint. But Roy Mustang had tact, and grace, and extraordinary patience, and a fondness for displaying his superior dental hygiene, so he flashed La La his best, whitest smile and stood up.

"Hi, I'm Roy, and I'm not really an alcoholic, they just sent me here."

Looks were exchanged throughout the room as La La nodded vehemently. "Okay," she said, "okay," and he added the second "okay" to the list of why he hated her. "No, no – that's fine. Absolutely okay. Acknowledging that you have a problem is the first step to recovery."

Tact. Grace. Brilliantly white teeth. "I'm sure it is," he said. Of course, he couldn't ever keep his enormous (and clean) trap shut: "Not that I have a problem."

"Uh-huh," La La said, her eyes wide and caring. "When do you drink, Roy?"

"When I'm thirsty," he replied, blinking.

"I mean alcohol," she said.

"Yeah," he agreed. What was she driving at?

She cleared her throat, then forged ahead. "Okay. When you're thirsty. When else? At parties?"

"Oh, sure. Nothing else to do." He thought a moment. "Also after work. And with friends." Another pause. "And generally when the camera's on me."

"Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah. I mean – who needs character development? Fangirls love a hot man who's destroying his liver."

La La nodded thoughtfully. "Roy, have you ever considered that you might have a self-esteem problem?"

Roy felt his perfectly rounded chin drop just as someone knocked on the door. She threw out, "Think about that," then went to answer it. Self-esteem problem? _Him? _Roy Mustang, graceful and tactful and inhumanly handsome? Was it even _possible _to have a self-esteem problem when he was this perfect?

"Is this grief counseling?" came the voice from the door.

"Oh, no, no – that's down the hall. This is a – card game."

"Oh yeah?" A tiny head peeked its way into the room. "It doesn't look like a – _Colonel?"_

Okay. Good. He could handle Fullmetal. He was used to that. Smiiiirk...Oh, that's a _nice _smirk, Colonel. Good job. And then something witty: "Funny, Fullmetal – I could have sworn there was a minimum height to get in here. Did you slip under the door crack?" Well, not all that witty, but it would pass.

Strange. He must have been off his game, because Fullmetal slipped inside with hardly a twitch. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Apparently, I have a self-esteem problem."

Fullmetal stared at him a moment, then burst into laughter. Several awkward moments passed as he was the only one laughing and didn't even seem to notice. Finally, he called back:

"Hey, Al! Apparently, the Colonel has a self-esteem problem!"

"Oh! Poor Colonel," came the reply as Al himself slipped in.

La La finally got over her surprise. "Um – Roy, would you care to introduce us to your – friends?"

"Oh, that won't be necessary, really," Roy said, forcing cheer into his voice. "See, Fullmetal and his brother will only be here for a _short _time."

Fullmetal scowled a moment, but then closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out. The hell?

"Indeed, there won't be time for _small _talk."

A twitch, a breath, a calm. Fine then. He _would _get a rise out of Edward, even if he had to get out the big guns.

"EDWARD ELRIC IS A TINY MIDGET THE SIZE OF A DOLL THAT A BABY DORMOUSE WOULD PLAY WITH."

Ed's eyes snapped open, his face contorted – and then he looked over at Al, took a deep breath, and turned back to Roy with a careless grin. Roy, in turn, turned to Al.

"What the hell, Alphonse?"

"My brother got _yoga,_" Al said proudly.

Roy raised his eyebrows, gave an "Ahhh" and wondered what he'd done to deserve this.

"It was, apparently, a big thing in London. So he took a class, and look at him now! And then he went to therapy," Al continued, "and now he's a perfectly normal, well-adjusted human being."

"Or at least he would be if he weren't actually a homunculus," Roy offered. "Because he is." Ed – _Ed, _of all people_ – _shot him a look that quite clearly told him to stop being childish and went over to check out the refreshment table.

Well, didn't that just beat all. All his joys in life – gone! The only thing that could console him now was hordes of slavering fangirls. And for fangirls he needed –

Dammit.

"You know what, La La?" he asked.

"What?"

"Hm?"

"What did you call me?"

"Hm?"

"Um...What is it I should know?"

"I think I'm cured, that's what. I have a problem, and I'll never drink again, and I'm in a bit of a rush now because happy hour ends at six."

Fullmetal sprayed his pecan sandies all over the coffee machine. "Colonel – you're in here for _alcoholism?"_

"Shut up, Fullmetal."

"Whose idea was _that?"_

"Shut _up, _Fullmetal!"

"I should buy them cookies."

"Goddammit all!" Roy turned to the other people present. "Aren't you going to throw him out?"

"Anyone is welcome here," La La said serenely.

"Hey, Colonel!" Fullmetal called. Roy turned, and the short bastard shouted "Think fast!" and then there was suddenly an apple flying at his face. It bounced against his forehead.

"You _asshole!" _Roy spat.

"Sorry, buddy," Fullmetal grinned. "Forgot about your lack of depth perception."

"Alphonse – will you _take your brother away, please – _"

"You know, girls never think that cyclopses are hot."

"It's 'cyclopes.'"

"Of course you'd be well-versed on the terminology!" Fullmetal laughed.

"You know what, Fullmetal?" Roy launched himself at the kid, and fell about two feet short. Fucking eyepatch. Fucking one good eye. He pulled himself into a sitting position with all the dignity he could muster and proclaimed, "I lost this eye in the service of my _country. _You should be more _grateful. _You _all _should be _grateful_."

"You lost that eye in an attempted _coup, _you ass," the tiny bastard corrected.

This time, Roy missed because Fullmetal was too short. "You were the one who was all like, 'Yo, Taisa, Bradley equals Homunculus!' Now, there's only _one _Homunculus I don't kill – and that's _you – _oh, wait, I _totally will!"_

"Colonel..." Alphonse trailed off, as generally indicated by the ellipses. "You can't kill Niisan."

"And why the hell _not, _whatever-your-name-is?"

"Alphonse," the boy said serenely, "and because he's the main character."

"I've heard that excuse too often!" Roy cried. "It's attempted coup number two time in Mustang-land!"

* * *

"Colonel!" Hawkeye said, standing as he came in. "What happened to you?"

He settled himself gingerly in a chair. "First," he said, rubbing at his eyes, "I learned that as good as instinct is, depth perception is even more vital to, you know, aiming things (like fire) than anything else. Then I found out what it looks like to see a coffee-maker explode. _Then_ I got kicked out of that, that – _abomination _and sent to an anger management class." He fixed her with a stare that said that what was said next was in the strictest confidence. "Then Fullmetal – jumped me."

"Jumped you, sir?" she asked in a slightly strangled tone.

"Not like _that_, Hawkeye. You've been reading too much fanfiction. He – dammit, Hawkeye, the little bastard kicked my ass."

"Really, sir?"

"Apparently, his show of – you know – placidity is just in front of his brother." Mustang sighed and shook his head. "This has been among the worst days of my life."

"Worse than when that hooker refused you?"

"Mm. Yes. Worse. Find whoever signed me up for that – _thing – _and fire them." There was no response, and Mustang looked over and sighed. "Never mind, then. I'm just curious – Hawkeye, what could have _possessed _you – ?"

She tended to a few papers when she spoke. "When you drink, sir, you're very...You have a tendency to just unbutton your jacket a _little, _and your hair gets a _touch _messier, and your collar gets rumpled a _touch, _and while I'll be the first to admit that you have a nice smile – " (It was reassuring that someone else recognized his excellent dental hygiene!) " – when you get to angsting...Well, Colonel, I hardly have to tell you that the number of drinks that you have in a day is directly proportional to the number of fangirls that you have."

"Right," Mustang agreed, blinking. "Why is that a bad thing?"

"Because – " She still didn't make eye contact. "When there are all those girls fawning over you, Colonel, I get a touch – jealous, is all."

Mustang blinked, unable to respond. He still didn't manage to say anything as Hawkeye stood, bid him a good night, and left. His mind was simply trying to work out how long _twelve _steps would take to complete.


	2. Homecoming

**"Homecoming"  
**Aww, how cute. No, really - he's a good dad. Promise!

* * *

Hoenheim Elric came home one day, practically swooning from all the damned nostalgia.

"Oh..." he said, looking around as he stepped inside the doorway. Everything was...changed. It was all just...He shook his head. "It's been too long."

"Who's there?" piped a voice. Twin footsteps pattered down the stairs, and two golden-haired boys came into view. Hoenheim fought the emotions rising in his throat at the sight of his two sons, so healthy! So vibrant!

"My boys..." he managed. But there was, to his despair, no recognition in their eyes, no love arrayed before him: no, the older looked at him with bewildered defiance, the younger with bewildered confusion. Except that bewilderment and confusion meant the same thing. Crap. Oh, well; blame it on his age.

He knelt down, trying to bring his height closer to theirs. "Where's your mother?"

"She's not here," the elder said, chin set stubbornly. "Who are you?"

Hoenheim didn't answer – _couldn't _answer, merely nod sadly. "I'm sorry, both of you, but I can't...It's impossible to stay. I have too much...too much to do by far. Just...know that I love you both, and that I know that your mother..." He couldn't speak, then, choked up by the thought that he'd managed to come home, only to find he wouldn't have an opportunity to see his beloved. "Here," he muttered, digging in his pocket and handing the elder boy the purse he'd put together. "I hope that...this will help you for a little while."

"Mister..." the younger managed, looking so sad that it broke his heart. Hoenheim shook his head.

"No. I'm sorry. Let your mother know...that I love her..." he managed, then stood up once again. He was proud that as he left, he managed to keep himself from looking back.

"Big brother – " Fletcher Tringham said. "Did you know him?"

"Nope. Never seen him before in my life. " Russell replied, then weighed the purse in his hand. "I'm not complaining, though – are you?"

"Nope."


	3. Why Is It Always the Guilty Who Suffer?

**"Why Is It Always the Guilty Who Suffer?"  
**Because it was only a matter of time before we stuck an odd, punning movie reference in here.

* * *

_"Confess, _damn you!" 

"Never!"

"Do it!"

"I won't!"

"Confess!"

"I'm innocent!"

"Confess!"

"No!"

"_Confess!"_

"Bite me, doughboy!"

"Hey!" Breda said. He happened to be _sensitive _about that sort of thing, thank-you-very-much.

Kimbley couldn't help snickering a little. He loved making fun of people for attributes they couldn't change, like being fat. Or dead.

Still, Breda recovered relatively quickly, and leaned over once again to say, "Dr. Richard Kimbley. We know you killed the soldiers in Lior. Confess!"

"One, it wasn't me, it was the one-armed man, and two, my name is _Zolof_, thank you. And I'm not a doctor. They put people back together. I 'splode 'em." Kimbley concluded his speechlet with a broad shrug.

Breda was actually quite startlingly intelligent, given his girth, and how those two statements interrelate, I don't know, but in this sort of situation dress size is for some reason inversely proportional to IQ, go figure, but he didn't know how to react to sociopathic ramblings, so he slammed his fist down on the table and bellowed, _"Confess!"_

"Lieutenant Breda!" Falman said crisply. He was the thinner (and thus more intelligent) of the two. "You don't seem to be getting anywhere. May I try something different?"

Breda shrugged and nodded. Falman faced Kimbley, who was slouching insolently in his chair. Still smirking, though. He'd been starving himself recently so that he could outthink these bozos.

"Lieutenant Colonel Kimbley. You have so far confessed to ninety-three counts of murder – "

"Ninety-_seven," _Kimbley corrected with a bit of pardonable pride.

"I was getting there – four counts of murder with a _weapon, _seventeen counts of aggravated assault, twenty-five counts of assault with intent to harm, and one count of – " Falman double-checked. "Stalking?"

"I just wanted to find out what type of underwear Hawkeye wore," Kimbley explained, casual as all hell.

"Ah. I see. That's – really creepy." Falman pondered that a moment, then moved on. "So what I don't understand is why you don't just confess to the Ishvar thing."

"I would never – _never – _have anyone think that I killed my friends."

"Ahh," Falman said, then checked his records. "Fifty-three of the counts of murder were among people in the military. Twenty-three of the counts of assault with intent – " Once again, he examined the records more closely. "Twelve of those on a single person?"

"Mustang got under my skin," Kimbley said, shrugging. "Stupid bastard. Always so su_per_ior."

Breda had, at this point, finished his curried chicken salad sandwich, so he felt as though it were an appropriate time to slam his fist down on the table and bellow, "_Confess!"_

Falman tried to speak over his apoplectic partner. "The records clearly show that you haven't the slightest compunctions in regards to killing friends."

Kimbley leaned back in his chair, chewing on his lower lip thoughtfully. "You make an excellent point." He thought another moment. "Could I have another donut?"

Falman and Breda turned around to look at the cream-splattered walls behind them. _"No," _they said as one.

"Aww, c'mon..."

"Do you promise that you'll eat it?" Breda asked, because ha, ha, he's fat so he likes to eat.

"And not explode it?"

"'Splodin' honor," Kimbley said, holding up both tattooed palms.

Falman nodded. Breda handed over yet another donut, then ducked just in time to avoid the custard that flew in a graceful arc over his head.

Falman wiped a bit of cream from his eyes and looked a bit lost for words. He looked down, looked up again, then leaned over and slammed his fist onto the table, bellowing "_Confess!"_

"Only way to deal with 'em," Breda said, looking on with approval.

The door suddenly opened, and Mustang popped his head in. "Hi!" He said cheerily. "I'd just like to not invite you to have a drink with me, because I'm totally off the wagon, so there you are."

"You're 'off the wagon' when you start drinking again, Colonel," Breda said.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Huh. I didn't know that." Mustang looked at him, brow furrowed. "Did you lose weight?"

Kimbley, who evidently had been staring off into space and singing softly a sinister 'splodey song to himself during that initial exchange, looked up and noticed Roy standing there. "_You!" _he spat.

_"You!" _Roy returned.

Kimbley, enraged at his rival's wit, charged the wagon-less Colonel, who, unfortunately, couldn't tell; to him, it looked like Kimbley was jogging in place, raising a chair above his head. He realized his mistake too late.

"Fucking lack of depth perception," he said, a moment before Dr. Richard Kimbley broke a chair over his head. "God, not the teeth! _Not the teeth!"_

Breda wrestled Kimbley off Mustang as Falman revised his records. "Twenty-_four _assaults with intent to harm."

Roy was standing up and testing each tooth in turn to make sure not a one was out of place. "Shoo," he said around his fingers, "whysh Mishtaa crayshee i' heer?" Content, he wiped his fingers on his stylish pants.

"Destruction of Lior. Death of soldiers. He keeps insisting it was a one-armed man."

"A slot machine killed them?" Mustang asked, confused.

"What?"

"Uh..."

"Well," Kimbley interrupted, "he started out one-armed. Then he kind of went to no-armed."

"I don't understand why you would have killed them," Roy said. "After all, Archer was among those injured, and I don't think you'd _ever _want to hurt him, if you know what I mean."

"At least, not in a _bad way, _if you know what I mean."

Breda, catching on, asked, "Oh, yeah, yeah. Weren't you two..._friends?"_

"_Good _friends?"

"By which we mean, were you not engaging in sexual relations with him?" Falman asked. Roy and Breda paused a moment, then shrugged.

"Archer and I..." Kimbley said slowly, "have never, _never, NEVER HAD SEX!" _He took a deep breath, then paused. "Well, except that once. But that doesn't count."

"So, don't you want to take credit for his death?" asked Roy. "Prove you two didn't have carnal knowledge of one another? Weren't doing the horizontal mambo?"

"Actually, me having killed him often means that I _did _sleep with him," Kimbley said.

"You're a sick bastard," Breda said.

"Oh, stop," Kimbley said modestly.

Falman, Breda, and Mustang looked at each other, each unable to think of a thing to say. So Mustang leaned forward, slammed his fist on the table, and bellowed, _"Confess!" _The other two applauded his performance.

"Okay," Kimbley said.

They each paused. Finally, Roy spoke, cautiously: "Really?"

"No."

"Oh."

They each looked at each other a while longer, until Roy suddenly burst out laughing. "Oh, it's not as though it matters, anyway!"

"Why's that?" Breda asked.

"We can _hardly _try a dead man for something like this!"

"I'm not dead," Kimbley said.

Falman and Breda started laughing, too. "Oh, Colonel! It really looks as though you've slimmed down," the former said.

"Well, guys, I think we can call it a day. How's about we don't go out for a drink and you spread that around?"

"Sounds like a plan," agreed Falman. "Should we leave him some food?"

"What's the need?" Breda asked. "Dead men don't need to eat."

"I'm not dead!" Kimbley bellowed, slamming his fists on the table so hard he came out of his chair.

"Right, right," Falman said, turning off the light and locking the door behind him, leaving Kimbley trapped, alone and hungry, in the dark. He called out for help a few times, but there was no response.

Then it hit him.

"Oh. Crap. I _am _dead." He considered. "Well, this bites."

* * *

(A/N: It's from _The Fugitive, _by the way, if you didn't know. Dr. Richard Kimble. The one-armed man. Ba dump bump.) 


	4. Sending Death Threats by Mail

**"Sending Death Threats by Mail is a Federal Offense"  
**Your mom enjoyed this story..._in bed last night!_

* * *

Every day at ten o'clock, the nondescript mail-lady came by and dropped off all the letters for the office. 

Every day at ten-oh-one, Hawkeye asked if someone else was planning to sort the mail today, or if she was going to have to do it again. Generally, one of her five officemates made a marginally sensical comment about having slipped the mail to someone else's mother the previous night.

Every day at ten-oh-three, one of two things happened: either Riza sighed heavily and distributed everyone's letters, or, if she was feeling irritable, Breda or Fury ended up doing it as Havoc put in a requisition for a bit of plaster to patch up the ceiling's new bullet hole as Roy commented about how much he'd enjoyed Falman's mother's "bullet hole" the previous night.

And every day at ten-oh-five, Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist, vastly exaggerated the number of admirers he had.

"Love letter," he announced, setting down a Christmas card from his grandparents, "love letter, love letter, love letter from Breda's mom, love letter, challenge to duel by jilted boyfriend, love letter – Ooh! This one looks raunchy," he said, waving his electrical bill with a grin of anticipation. He set it aside. "Love letter, fan mail, naked photos, love let – err...uh?" He set down the rest of his mail and flipped this suspicious-looking envelope over.

There was a sudden ripping sound, and Roy looked up. Breda was standing over him with duct tape. He raised an eyebrow.

"There might be anthrax in there," Breda said.

"Okay," Roy said, and waited for an elaboration. There was none, so he was compelled to ask, "And what's the duct tape for?"

"To help with the anthrax."

Roy blinked and shook his head. "Okay. Well, um, Breda, thank you, thanks very much for your concern, but I think I'm ay-okay on this one. Thanks, though, really." He took a sip of coffee as Breda shrugged, now looking rather hurt and awkward with a strip of tape dangling from his fingers, and returned to his chair. Then Roy opened the letter. Slowly, he scanned it, then read it more carefully, and then sprayed coffee all over it, shouting, "OMGWTFBBQ?"

"You'd have fewer dental problems if you didn't hold drinks like coffee in your mouth so long, Colonel," Falman said cheerily from his seat, splitting an envelope open with a letter opener. "It stains your teeth."

"I like to savor it," Roy replied, "and I have _great _teeth."

Breda, of course, found it necessary to interject that "Your _mom _held me in her mouth really long..._last night."_

"What is that, anyway, sir?" Riza asked without looking up from her pile of letters, a great number of which seemed to be decorated with hearts. "Phone bill?"

Roy shook his head. "Death threat."

Riza raised an eyebrow. "Really," she said calmly.

"Yeah. 'Dear Colonel, you had best watch your back, because soon that hot ass of yours will be nothing but mush!'"

"Are you sure that's a death threat?" Falman asked. "It sounds more like an admonition to exercise."

"Yeah," Fury agreed. He stood up and twisted his back so that he was facing nearly the other way in a rather Jazzercise-esque move. "Watch your back, like this. Don't want that tight booty going all mushy!"

Havoc grunted his agreement. "Is it from your mom?" Roy waited for an ass-mother double entendre, but none was forthcoming. "My mom sends me stuff like that all the time."

"Your mother sent me something pretty racing in the bedroom last night," Falman said.

"You all lose," Mustang declared. "Except for Breda, but you know what? I'd say he loses just on general principle."

"Yeah, your mom lost her – "

"And, no, it's not from my mother; her death threats are much more cleverly-worded. Plus she _generally _tends to sign it 'Your resentful mother' rather than, you know, 'Evil Alchemist' or something."

"_Evil Alchemist?" _Roy nodded and held up the letter, formed of letters cut out of what seemed to be the popular anime/gaming magazine _Newtype. _"Wow," Breda said. "That's, uh...Well, that's the lamest name ever, for an alchemist _or _an assassin."

"For both, it boggles the mind," Falman contributed.

"Now," Mustang said, deliberately ignoring his extraordinarily unhelpful minions, "this won't be Fullmetal; though he sends me regular death threats, God knows he's too repressed by far to actually acknowledge my hotness." He then looked to the font of all exposition. "Hawkeye, have you heard of the Evil Alchemist?"

"Yes, sir," she replied, rather to the surprise of the others. Not that they were surprised that she knew, she, of course, being the font of all exposition; they were surprised because normally she volunteered information without being asked. Damn woman. "The Evil Alchemist – the newest serial killer who's stalking the streets, murdering State Alchemists."

"Wait – " Mustang said. "Scar?"

"No, sir. The Evil Alchemist."

"So, he's a State Alchemist, killing State Alchemists."

"No, sir."

"I don't understand. He's not a State Alchemist? He has the special name hoozy-doozy."

"Well, sir," Hawkeye said, "apparently, according to popular consensus, you don't have to be a State Alchemist to have a title anymore."

"Oh," Mustang said, then shook his head. "Well, uh, what does he do?"

"He destroys the bodies of his victims, utterly. Skwirches them into bits."

"I skwirched your _mom _last night."

"Why?"

"He wants revenge."

"Riiight." Mustang picked up a pen and rolled it horizontally back and forth between his fingers. "So, he's a canon-defying mysteriously powerful alchemist, about whom we inexplicably know numerous details, and who is completely interchangeable with Scar." He tapped the pen twice on his desktop, then set it down. "Really a grand sort of time to be in a fanfic, isn't it?"

"Never grander, sir," Hawkeye said serenely, sorting papers into piles. "Now, the forecast says it's going to rain; are you planning on working late and just happening to wander home alone and without a car or an umbrella, or are we going to have to have a fight, after which you take a walk to calm your nerves?"

"I'm not playing along with this, Hawkeye," Mustang said. "I'm not going to gratify these ludicrous whims of a half-crazed (and extraordinarily derivative) author."

"Not the best position to take, Colonel," Havoc said. To further his rebellion, he'd lit up. A cigarette, that is. Not with rage. Mustang had, perhaps, lit up. With rage. But with Havoc, it was just a cigarette. Oh, silly Havoc. Silly, cancerous Havoc. "It's going to happen, whether you like it or not. Might as well get it over with."

Riza nodded her (rather disinterested) agreement. "It's essentially inescapable at this point. If it's not outside, it's at the office; if not at the office, at home. Wisdom dictates that you should ensure that it's at the time and place of your choosing. Afterwards, you can bleed, angst, and then get back to your regular work."

"You seem terribly calm about all this," he said. Riza, in response, pulled out her gun, unloaded the ammunition cartridge, reloaded it, and shot him a meaningful glance. Roy, slightly mollified, sniffed. "This never happens to Fullmetal," he said.

"Oh, sure it does. Plenty of times."

The Colonel scowled, but slammed his hand on the table and stood up, if only to save a _little _bit of face in the wake of his impending capitulation. "This talk has made me terribly angry," he said. "I think I shall go for a walk to calm my nerves."

"Be sure to take an umbrella, Colonel."

"Why, no," Roy said to Riza. "I'm so steamed up, I'm not even going to take basic precautions. – Could you maybe buy me a sandwich while I'm out?"

"I'll buy you a salad," she said.

"I actually kind of really want a turkey-and-swiss sandwich on baguette with garlic aioli."

"Your mom liked my baguette..._last night,_" Havoc interjected.

Riza paid him no heed. "Amazing, then, to consider how you're getting a Cobb salad with a light vinaigrette."

"Screw it," he said, walking over to the closet to grab his long overcoat. "I'll get my own damn lunch. You know, I could get a lot more work done if I actually didn't have to pop out to the store every lunch."

"And you could lower your blood pressure if you actually got some fiber in your body. Salads are good for you."

"Rabbit food," he declared, pulling his coat onto his shoulders _just right, _so that the tails swirled dramatically. "Give me prime rib, or give me death!"

"I gave your _mom _prime rib last night," Breda said. He held his hand out for a high five; Havoc gave one to him, surreptitiously.

"I hope you never have sex again," Roy said, and stalked ever so angrily out the door.

And got about two feet out the front gate before something grabbed him by the head.

"You have _got _to be kidding me," he muttered. As he was dragged into an alley by the massive figure that had seized him by the head, he continued to rant, embarrassingly, out loud: "What the hell happened to suspense? For that matter, what happened to _logic? _I'm now standing about a hundred feet from an entire building filled with people with guns. Wouldn't it work better if – " Thankfully, he was cut off by a punch to the stomach.

Once he'd caught his breath enough for an outraged "Ow," he began to scrutinize his cliché. Said vapid bit of triteness was large, bulky, and with generally indistinguishable features due to the convenient darkness, the creation of a poor plot device, which had fallen over the land – particularly surprising considering the fact that he'd just stepped out for lunch. (Of course, the word "creation" made Roy think of sex, and the word "device" made Roy think of _kinky _sex, so he ended up giggling a little, making his contemptuous scrutiny rather less dramatic.)

Then he forced himself into solemnity. "I'm assuming you're the Evil Alchemist," Roy said. "Since last time I checked, only you and Cashmere Escort Service had outstanding appointments..."

"Yes," the mysterious figure intoned. "I am the Evil Alchemist. And, Colonel Roy Mustang, I am here to kill you."

"I got that, actually, sort of. I mean, obviously you're going to fail, 'cause – " Roy snapped, and nothing happened. "Isn't that quite the paradox? If I'm gonna die, it's going to be after a whole long dramatic fight scene (in which I have a chance, mind you), so it'll be with my gloves functional. So I know that if I lose my power, I'm not going to die, but if I don't lose my power, I'm not going to die, 'cause let's face it, I'm _awesome."_

"That made...very little sense," said the Evil Alchemist.

"I'm sure that's because of a deficiency on your part, and not mine," Roy responded. He glanced down at his wristwatch. "When's Riza scheduled to show up and save my ass? I'm getting hungry."

"Your Lieutenant won't save you now," Mr. Evil said.

"Caught up in paperwork, is she?" Roy asked.

"No! When she was stepping out to buy you a sandwich, I killed her!"

"You _what?" _Roy demanded.

The Evil Alchemist seemed to suffer a bit of a convulsion. From somewhere came a whisper of "See? I told you!" and from another place, "Shh!" Roy watched this, rather bemused.

"Ha ha ha!" Señor Evil chortled. "Do you believe me, or not? Ha ha ha! Perhaps I am just playing with your mind!"

"Riiight," Roy said. "So, uh, how is it that you plan to not-kill me?"

"Beat you to death with a baseball bat," Evil Alchemist said. When Roy just kind of stared, he added, "I form the baseball bat with alchemy."

"Hmm," Roy said. "That one's new."

"Really?" gasped the Evil Alchemist.

"Didn't say it wasn't dumb," Roy cautioned, "but, yeah, it's new, I guess."

"Awesome!" Dr. Evil exclaimed. "Watch." He turned away, clapped, and pulled forth a baseball bat in a flash of light. "Cool, huh?"

"Oh, my god," Roy groaned. "You just pulled that baseball bat out from under your shirt."

"Oh, yeah?" the Evil Alchemist challenged. "Then how do you explain the light of _alchemy?"_

Roy, wordlessly, pointed to the burnt remains of a flare at the Evil Alchemist's feet.

Evil looked at this, looked at Roy, looked back down, then raised the baseball bat. "Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist, heretic, prepare to die!"

For all Evil's idiocy, that bat looked distressingly solid. "Riza!" Roy called toward the mouth of the alley. Then he turned to Evil. "Why, exactly, do I have to die?"

Evil lowered the bat a little. "For destroying my homeland, of course."

"Uh-huh," Roy said, then, once again, "Riiizaaaaa! Riza Haaaawkeye!" Then Roy's instincts kicked in, a little. "Tell me, Evil Alchemist, your homeland wouldn't happen to be your mom's integrity, would it? 'Cause I think you're right – I think I destroyed that _last night."_

"What?" Evil shook his head. "That didn't make any sense."

"Well, I'm sure, again, that the fact that it made no sense was your fault, not mine."

And, again, there was that mysterious whisper: "He's not very nice in person." And, again, "Shh!" And so an inkling began to form in the depths of Roy's brain, which, admittedly, wasn't terribly deep to begin with, consisting primarily as it did of "Roy's Hotness," "Bashing Fullmetal," and "SEX!" Nevertheless, it did indeed begin to foment in that hive of not-so-much-subtlety that sat upon his neck, and, unlike most notions that took root in his mind, was acted upon.

"Scar, is that you?" he asked loudly. "Is this about me not calling you after our bout of hot steamy sex the other night?"

And, in response, there was a loud flutter of giggling, as the singing of many birds in one tree.

"Oh my god," Roy said, pure terror in his voice, "you're a dozen fangirls stuffed inside a man-suit."

"Shit!" one cried, while another laughed really loud and a third asked, "Can we rape him now?"

"No," said a blessedly familiar voice.

"Riza!" Roy cried. "You've come to save me!"

"No, I've come to watch," she corrected, making an entrance from the mouth of the alley that was decidedly less dramatic now that it turned out she _wasn't _his savior. "I thought for sure you'd be stabbed by this point."

"_What?" _Roy demanded, his voice breaking a little. "Riza, you're not – what did I do? Riza, save me from the fangirls!"

"Oh, don't get your panties in a wad," she said, as one of the fangirls giggled, "He wears panties?" "Getting a little beat up is good for your career."

"No it's not!"

"Sure it is. Remember Chapter 39. You remember Chapter 39, don't you?"

"Yes, I remember Chapter 39."

"And you remember how much you closed the gap between yourself and Edward after that?"

Roy gave her a blank look. "Who?"

"Fullmetal."

"Hee hee hee!" giggled one of the fangirls. "He _closed the gap _between him and Ed. Hee hee hee – "

"Back off, bitch," Riza said matter-of-factly, then turned back to her Taisa. "And Edward didn't even show up in those chapters. Remember that?"

A beatific smile crossed Roy's face. "Ahh, yes...That was beautiful. It was _this close _to becoming the Flame Alchemist once and for all – "

"No, actually, it wasn't, sir, but we can pretend. So, sir? Are you willing to take one for the team of Roy Mustang?"

"'The team of Roy Mustang,'" Roy repeated. "I _do _like the sound of that. No raping, though. Okay? No sexual contact. Because you know at least one of these girls has slept with Inuyasha, and do you have _any _idea what you can come up with when you lay down with dogs?"

"Fleas, I'm guessing," Riza said, as several of the girls giggled at the mere thought of naughty doggie games with the infamous half-demon.

"And syphilis. You know, they got syphilis from _sheep. _You know that? And how many of these do you suppose has been with that one guy?"

"Which one?" Riza asked.

"The one from Fruits Basket. The, uh, bipolar one."

"He was a cow, Roy. The sheep was the twelve-year-old."

"Oh, god," Roy said, and shot the mass of fangirl a dirty look. "You make me sick. Contracting syphilis from a little _boy. _Was it a boy? A little _boy."_ Then he turned to Riza. "How do you know so much about Fruits Basket, anyway?"

"Okay, girls!" Riza cried, turning to the giant heap of Evil. "You heard the man. No bad-touching or anything like that – just a little bit of a beating, maybe a stab or two, and then I'll step in and save the day and it'll all be cool, okay? And avoid the face."

"Don't worry," one of the fangirls said. "We wouldn't _dream _of touching the face."

Then, as once again the fangirls raised the bat over their collective head (not, of course, that hecould really tell), Roy began to realize that there was no "I" in team, and that regardless of whether or not he contracted gonorrhea from this encounter, he might not walk out entirely none the worse for wear.

"Um, Riza?" he asked. "Riza, I'm – I'm having second – OH MY GOD THAT WAS MY COLLARBONE! It's very fragile! It's very very fragile! Didn't any of you morons take _physiologarrrrgh! _My arm! My fucking arm!"

"Be sure to stab him a little," Riza advised. "He tends to show off his pecs a little whenever he gets stabbed."

"Riza! Riza, you traitor! You – Brutus! How could you do this to me? Riizaaa, I'll show you my _arrrrgh!"_

"It's for your career," she said simply. "_Now_ will you take a goddamn salad?"

* * *

(A/N: But remember - there's no I in Teamocil - at least, not where you'd think. Aww, you didn't - did nobody get that? Nobody? ...Awww.) 


	5. Look at How Cute I Am!

**"Look at How Cute I Am!"**  
Dear Fullmetal Alchemist side story/Playstation game/drama CD: You have no one to blame for this but yourself.

* * *

It was a bright, sunny, cheerful day in the hamlet of TinytownthatinexplicablyislinkedtothePhilosopher'sStoneNo.443. 

"Awfully bright," commented Ed, squinting up at the sky. He had quite a long way to squint, of course. Ba-dump-BSSHT.

"Sunny, too," Al agreed cheerfully. Then, he glanced to the right, then to the left, then to the right again and ducked behind a little wall.

"Aaaaaruuuuu," Ed moaned, catching sight of his brother precisely because said Aru was a large suit of armor who had ducked behind a _little _wall.

"I wasn't doing anything! Niisan!" Aru squeaked. Unfortunately for him, his chest armor was still open, and there were cats peeking out! One meowed, too!

"Aaaaaaaarrrrruuuuuuuuuu!" Edo moaned once again. "You can't keep keeping cats! We can't do it! I know you like cats, but Aru, we can't keep them!"

"Ano...But niisan," Aru said quietly and seriously, "this fanfic won't be SO KAWAII unless we have an Al-likes-cats reference."

Ed pondered this for a moment. "Touché."

"Now start ranting about how you're soooo not short, and we can get to the main plot."

"Al, my brother," Ed said, "you are terribly, terribly wise. Perhaps I am reputed to be the genius, but you..." Perhaps the smiling, ray-ban wearing sun above their respective heads had addled their brains, but for some reason, Ed was a bit slow on the uptake. "Wait – _Al! You traitor! _Stab me in the back – _I'm not short, damn you! You – you – Jezebel!"_

"I never called you short, and besides, that's the wrong allusion, brother," Al said, holding one of the cats up so it could scratch itself upon his head-spike.

"I don't give a damn about _allusions, _dammit! I'm a scientist, not some – _magician!_"

"Magician?" Al asked.

"Magician?" a high-pitched voice echoed.

Ed and Al blinked simultaneously. Well, actually, that last sentence there might have been a bit misleading. Al didn't actually blink. He's a suit of armor! Ah hah! Oh, the confusion! Oh, the hilarity! Oh, the return to the main narrative.

So they blinked, or didn't, given their relative predispositions, and looked down to see an adorable little girl standing there, sucking on her thumb, clutching a teddy bear, and gazing up at them with enormous brown eyes.

"Well, I guess we could've filled the OMG kawaii factor without the cats then, eh, Al?" Ed chortled.

The animate suit of armor, however, was bending down to the little girl's level as best he could, which wasn't very well, really, because he was tall and steel doesn't bend too well. But he tried, and ended up forcing himself down to about five-foot-two. "Hello, there," Al cooed. "What's your name?"

"I'm Bewiaw-chan," she said adorably. "What's yow name?"

"I'm Al, Belial," Al said. "And this is Ed, my big brother."

Her adorable wide eyes grew even wider. "He's yow big bwothah?"

"He sure is!" Al giggled. "I may be tall, but I'm the little brother! Do you have a brother, Belial?"

"Mmm-hmmm," Belial nodded. "His name is Wucifah. He's the Pwince of Daakness."

"Isn't that just the cutest thing?" Al asked. Neither of the brothers was able to sense the least bit wrong with Belial, Al being rather taken with the girl, and Ed being oblivious to allusions biblical and literary.

"Yeah, real cute," Ed agreed. "Al, can we maybe get inside? I'm getting hot."

"You're _always _hot, brother," Al said. "What's your favorite thing to do, Belial-chan?"

"Genocwide," Belial said, sticking her thumb back in her mouth. This set off alarm bells in Ed's head.

"There's no place you can lisp in the word 'genocide,'" he said. Unfortunately, the alarm bells set off had been the wrong ones entirely. Furthermore, Ed's internal dictionary was about as effective as the fourth entry down on so she said "genocide" and he had "no idea."

"Brother!" Al was saying. "Don't be so crazy and anal-retentive."

"I can't help it, Al; I'm written this way." Again, he took no offense, as he _was _crazy and thought that the anal-retentive comment had something to do with how hot his ass was. He got that sort of thing a lot. "Really, I think there's something wrong with Belial."

"Brother, you're so cruel! She's a perfectly sweet little girl. Look at how cute she is!"

"Yes," Belial said with a little chortle, "look at how cute I am."

Al clasped his hands together with a loud clang. "She's cuter than a puppy!" he said. In response, Belial arfed. "Cuter than a kitty!" In response, Belial meowed. "Cuter than a little bird!" In response, Belial tweeted. "Cuter than a sea otter!" In response, Belial smashed an abalone on her chest. "Cuter than a forest sprite!" In response, Belial stole from the crib a child who had been protected neither by iron nor salt and left in its place a changeling.

"Al! Al," Ed said. "I get it. She's really frickin' adorable. But – "

"Brother," Al said, "has experience not proven that we're supposed to listen to cute little girls? There was the one in episode four that we saved, there was the one in episode five that we saved, there was the one in episodes six through seven that we would have saved if only we had _listened to her – _"

"Niiinaaaa," Ed angsted, completely ignoring the fact that actually, listening to the plump pigtailed little ball of adorable would have done no good whatsoever.

"And remember the little girl we saved in episodes eleven through twelve? Remember that?"

"I do remember that," Ed said. "But she's not following the formula for little-girl-to-be-listened-to at all. I mean, so far she hasn't – "

"Big bwothers," Belial lisped, "why is owdaa big bwother so showt? And why is bigaa big bwother wearing armaa?"

Once Ed had managed to work his way through the aneurysm caused by that particular line, he shrugged. "Okay, so she _is _following the formula. All she needs now is to be imperiled – "

Several Turkish rebels swarmed out from behind a building and grabbed Belial. Ed, dutifully, stabbed each.

"Well," Ed said. "Okay. I guess she's in the cute little girl club, then. Do we have to buy her ice cream, or what?"

"What flavor ice cream do you like, Belial-chan?" Al asked.

"Pig blood," Belial said.

This, again, set off warning lights. "_What _kind?" Ed gasped.

"Oh, sorry, sweetie," Belial said. "Pig _bwood._"

"Oh, no. You're not fooling me this time, _Belial-chan!_" Ed might not have been good with allusions, nor vocabulary, but damn if he didn't know his ice cream flavors."Pig's blood is _not _one of the Baskin-Robbins 41! You're not a little girl at all, are you?"

"Nope. I'm the personification of the sin of pride." Belial pulled a smoke from her pocket and took a long drag, then looked up with her huge brown eyes and blew smoke in Ed's face. "Look at how fuckin' cute I am."

Ed coughed and waved the smoke away, then hesitated. "Actually...You still are pretty cute."

"Big brother!" Al squeaked. "Can we keep her?"

Ed sighed. "I guess so. But only 'cause she has that lisp."

Belial cackled. "You're all right," she said, rapping on the side of Al's leg. Unfortunately, being a demon of rather medieval persuasion, coming into contact with the iron in the steel caused her to dissolve, leaving nothing but a single braid, a large eyeball, the baby ear upon which she had been munching before they happened along, and a sticky puddle of cute.

"Well, that was unexpected," Ed said.

"You know what Colonel Mustang would say if he were here," Al said cheerfully.

"'That wasn't the personification of pride; you are, Fullmetal, because you're a homunculus, ah hah hah hah miniskirts power booze and sex'?"

Al paused. "Well, yes. I suppose. But he would also say – "

"'What's-your-face-made-of-metal, lay down, I'll start a fire, and you can be the barbecue, and then we'll get Fullmetal to be the shrimp'?"

"That as well. However – "

"'Hey, Fullmetal, is that the Philosopher's Stone in your pocket or are you just happy to see me, well, it can't be the Philosopher's Stone because you're always going to fail because you're subpar as an alchemist and even though I'm abusive I'm still a better father figure than your actual father ha ha ha sucks to be Edward Elric'?"

"He's never going to call you by your real name, brother. He doesn't know it."

Ed collapsed against a nearby wall. "I know _that, _Al. Trust me."

"Anyway, what I was going to say was that the Colonel would say, 'There's no such thing as no such thing.'"

"He wouldn't say that," Ed said from his private little heap o' Fullmetal.

"Sure he would. He says it all the time."

"No he doesn't. That's Greed."

"Oh." Al pondered that. "What would the Colonel say, then?"

"Well, there are already several options on the table. Take your pick. Also, 'Fangirls love me,' to which I counter, 'Fangirls love me more because 1.) I wear leather and 2.) I'm built and c.) the poll results prove that they love me more' and so he replies, 'Die, you sexy little bastard.'" Ed considered that. "He might not say sexy. He probably would. But he might not."

"Huh. I wonder why I look up to him, then," Al said.

Ed waved a sizzling metal arm. "You probably don't. You're probably just heat-addled." He sighed. "Oh my god, I'm so hot."

"You're _always_ hot, brother," Al said.

Ed paused. "Was that a come-on?"

"What?"

Ed shook his head. "Nothing." He sighed. "This is the worst town ever."

Then, inexplicably, underneath the sizzling summer sun, Ed and Al laughed at their hijinks, the puddle was cute, and the bodies of several Turkish rebels rotted. Yes; everything was right in TinytownthatinexplicablyislinkedtothePhilosopher'sStoneNo.443.

(Although, just to clarify, it wasn't actually all that inexplicable that the corpses rotted. They have a tendency to do that, corpses. We here at Angst Productions apologize for any offense that our dangling modifier might have caused. We're aware that dangling modifiers are quite indecent, and fully expect this fic to be subpoenaed at any moment by the FCC. So, really, not everything was right, because, whoops! There goes retirement.) 


	6. Fullmetal Chef

**Fullmetal Chef  
**Whose alchemy reigns supreme?

* * *

Roy Mustang took a deep breath and prepared to push the double doors open. 

"Ah, Colonel – " Havoc said, tapping him on the shoulder. "That might not be the best idea."

Roy sighed and took a step back from said double doors. "Why's that, Lieutenant?" he asked.

"'Cause you can't start like that. There's always some sort of preamble, you know. 'Here's the backstory.' So that the audience isn't lost, and so that the entirety of the story isn't filled with awkward exposition that would have been unnecessary if only it had been started five minutes earlier with a bit less of a bang."

"Don't be stupid," Roy laughed. "What we're doing is a common stylistic device. _In media res. _You know what that means?"

"Yep."

"It means 'in the middle of things,' Lieutenant, and it's a grand tradition, stretching back to Homer, to Virgil. The _Aeneid _itself started out with _in media res._"

"Uh-huh."

"So I don't think, _Lieutenant, _that we're going to reject the techniques of Virgil himself."

Havoc held up his hands in surrender and made a mental note to switch Roy's coffee out for decaf and glue his pens to the bottom of his drawer. "Whatever, boss," he said. "Go ahead, then."

Roy Mustang took (another) deep breath and pushed the double doors open just as a voice bellowed "Roi Masutangu!" and subtitles across the bottom of the screen read "Roy Mustang!" He was tempted to take a moment to marvel at the serendipity that had caused him to be announced just as he walked in, since the announcement came at the end of a whole long speech, and at how he was able to see subtitles when he wasn't even looking at a television or anything like that, but then he realized that _sometimes _people can be too damn _nit-picky _and that _sometimes _authors have damn _artistic licenses, okay?_

He was surprised to see Hughes floating down toward him from the raised platform at the front of the soundstage. "Hughes, old man?" Roy asked. "What on earth are you doing here? And why are you subtitled when everyone else is dubbed?"

Hughes spoke, and the subtitles at the bottom of the screen read, "We've already been over all of this. Weren't you paying attention?"

"I started _in media res, _okay?" Roy said. "We need some _exposition,_ if that's all right with you."

"Well, then, you have no one to blame but yourself," the subtitles read. "Now, how do you feel about the upcoming battle?"

Roy cleared his throat, deciding that if he was going to do the thing, he would do it properly. "Confident," he said. "I, uh...Is that the music from _Backdraft?_" he asked suddenly, distracted.

"Good to hear!" the subtitles steamrollered. "Now, it's time to choose your opponent."

Lights flashed, the music from _Backdraft _swelled, and the Iron Chefs rose dramatically from the ground. "Iron Chef Fullmetal," someone announced, "Edward Elric." Edward was holding a tomato and looking disgruntled.

"Iron Chef Crystal Tim Marcoh." Doctor Marcoh was holding his cookbook which, secretly, was the recipe to the Philosopher's Stone OMGOMGPEOPLEWTF!

"Iron Chef 'Splodey Zolf Kimbley." Kimbley was, inexplicably, holding a stick of dynamite and giggling like mad.

"And Iron Chef...Iron, Alphonse Elric." Alphonse was holding a cleaver. Which was odd, because he wasn't supposed to have a cleaver. And he looked more menacing than usual. And –

Hughes bellowed, and the subtitles read, "DAMMIT, BARRY!" Barry the Chopper giggled and ran off the platform. A grumbling Alphonse took his place.

"Now, Roy Mustang," the subtitles read, "choose your opponent!"

Roy smiled. "I suppose I should go with Iron Chef Short-Stuff, because he was the one who challenged me in the first place..." Roy waited. And waited another moment. Then he tried scrunching up his eyes and concentrating really hard. Nothing happened. "Hey, what gives?"

"What do you mean?" Hughes asked.

"I'm just trying to do a flashback here," Roy said. "Is that not allowed or something?"

Hughes nodded. "Rule 17 of Kitchen Stadium."

Roy looked. Right in between "The Iron Chef always wins" and "The food shall not explode when the tasters bite into it, _Kimbley,_" was "No flash photography or flashbacks."

"Cute," Roy said, utterly disgusted.

"Thanks," Hughes said. "So! Choose your opponent!"

"Fullmetal," Roy said, sighing gustily. "Because he challenged me."

"Yes, yes, enough exposition," the subtitles read. "Edowaado-san," Hughes said, and Ed hopped obediently down.

"Long fall, Fullmetal?" Roy asked. Ed flipped him the bird.

"Now!" Hughes said. "To unveil the secret ingredient! I had a difficult time coming up with something utterly delectable, something sweet, something eminently presentable. However, after a great deal of thought, planning, consideration, it came to me." Hughes pulled a cord, and unveiled was... "ELYSIA-CHAN!" He beamed. "She's perfect! She's sweet as sugar, so you can make her into the ultimate dessert! Nothing's better!"

After the stadium had been cleaned up from the hurled debris, Hughes continued. "But seriously. I'm afraid Elysia can't be your ingredient – she's too precious, we couldn't afford her! Instead, it's – "

"Please say shrimp," Roy muttered, "please say shrimp, _please say shrimp – "_

"Shrimp!" Hughes bellowed, pulling a second cord and revealing a huge platter of the stuff.

"YES!" Roy bellowed.

"AUGH!" Ed screamed. "WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO TINY HE'LL BE MISTAKEN BY THE SOUS-CHEF FOR WHAT GOES IN THE SAUCE!"

"I don't know, Fullmetal," Roy said, "because you brought this upon yourself when you challenged me to the battle in place of your normal yearly evaluation!"

"Well, that wasn't awkward," Edward said, calmed by the sight of Roy making an ass of himself.

"Nonsense!" Roy scoffed. "This is a grand poetic tradition, stretching back to Vergil and Homer."

"Stilted exposition is a grand poetic tradition?"

"What's the secret ingredient again, Hughes?"

"Shrimp!"

"ARRGH!" Ed screamed again. "I'M GONNA KILL! I'M GONNA KILL!"

"In that case," the subtitles read, "let the battle begin!"

"Swear to god that's the music from _Backdraft,_" Roy said as he went to his own private hunk-o-kitchen. "Say, Havoc!" he said, spotting his trusty lieutenant. "Since you're here, as part of the deal was that we get to use our own personal staff-slash-friends as our back-up chefs, would you get me some of those SHRIMP?"

"Graah!" yelled Ed.

"No problem, boss," Havoc said.

"And get Riza for me."

"Big problem, boss," Havoc said.

"What?"

"Look there," Havoc said, jerking his thumb at a message pinned up to the wall by a bullet.

"Wow," Roy said. "She's good."

"Your mom was good in bed last night!" bellowed Breda.

"Pinning that note up with a _bullet?_"

"Your mom gave me a pin-up...of _herself!"_

"Fucking make some rice or something, asshat!" Roy called, then took down the letter. "'Dear Colonel,'" Roy read, "'no thanks.'" He pondered that for a moment, then realized just what she was referring to. "Aw, crap. That is gonna take a _lot _of explanation."

"Maybe next time you shouldn't go for the dramatic opener, Colonel," Havoc suggested, so Roy lit his hair on fire.

"It's a _tradition_!" Roy called after the screaming man. Then he looked at the kitchen, and remembered where he was, and realized that he'd just wasted a good five minutes. Man. Good thing he was so genius and could do it all in less time.

* * *

"I'm enraged, Al," Ed said, furiously chopping onions with his automail. 

"I know, brother," Al said, turning the stove on under a pot of water.

"Because they used _shrimp, _Al," Ed said, as though Al had asked why.

"I know, brother," Al said wearily.

"I don't know why they did it! I think it was to enrage me."

"Because it's all about you, brother."

"It _is _petty! And it _is _wrong! And – oh, Lieutenant Hawkeye," Ed said politely, looking up as she passed. "Aren't you supposed to be helping Colonel Mustang?"

"Oh, no, I'm not helping him out today," she said. "He knows why, even if the audience doesn't. How's it going there, Edward?"

"I'm not using shrimp," he declared. "It's my gesture of protest."

"You are aware that that particular gesture of protest will make you automatically lose, right?"

"Really?" Ed asked.

"I've been telling you that for the past ten minutes, brother," Al said. Then he pointed at the rules posted on the wall: in between "The Chairman shall not be dubbed" and "I am the Lord thy God; thou shalt have no God before me" was "The secret ingredient is there for a reason, asshat."

Ed giggled, because asshat looks really funny written out; then he lapsed back into depression. "Dammit," he said. "Maybe I should just resign myself to it now," he said, and glanced up at Hawkeye to gauge his effect.

"To what, brother?" Al asked. Ed glared a moment, then looked back at Hawkeye.

"I'll never try to fight those who insult me," Shorty McFly said. "Never again will I fight the great powers of the world – "

"Look," Hawkeye said gently, "if I sabotage the Colonel, will you stop trying to manipulate me?"

"Absolutely," Ed said. "_And _I'll transmute his chair into a pincushion, so when he sits down, he'll be hilariously in pain."

"I think he'd notice if his chair were a pincushion, so really, you can leave that bit out," she said, "but I do take glee at the thought of revenge upon him."

"What did he do, anyway, Miss Hawkeye?" Al asked.

"He knows," Riza said, then cocked her gun. "Prepare to win, Edward."

"All right!" Ed cried. "Okay, Al! Get to cooking some rice!"

* * *

"He never listens to me," Winry was saying. "I say, 'Ed, don't break your automail.' He breaks his automail. I say, 'Ed, don't try to dodge this wrench.' He tries to dodge the wrench. I say, 'Ed, don't have sex with your own little brother.'" 

"Does he?" Roy asked, leaning forward slightly.

"I don't know, but examining his track record to date..."

"That's disgusting," Falman said, which of course meant that he thought it was totally hot.

"Well, I think it's absolutely ridiculous that he doesn't pay you any heed," Roy said. "I think you're a marvelous young woman, lovely and well-spoken." He patted her on the arm.

"Ew, don't touch me, murderer," she replied.

"What? I – it's _clearly _established that that was Scar!" Roy protested. _"Clearly!"_

"Wait, sorry – are we in manga or anime canon?" Winry asked. "Because if it's the anime, I hate you."

"You don't much care for me in the manga, either," he reminded her.

"Oh, sure. But I can stand you in the manga," she said. "I guess."

"How generous," he mused. "Well, let's assume we're in the manga, at the moment. So, I'm a dog of the military, and the one who got Edward into the situation in the first place, which you disapprove of, but you don't hate my guts because I'm a good guy, and charming, and fatherly, and _really really _good-looking – "

"Moving on."

"Yes. So – you're a lovely young woman, and Edward is wrong never to listen to you."

"Thank you," Winry said. "Of course, Ed is always wrong."

"You're really mad at him, aren't you?" Roy asked.

"I am," she said. "We've been over this."

"Well, yes, but I wanted to start this scene _in media res. _It means 'in the middle of things,' and it's a respected literary – "

"Hey, boss!" Havoc called. "You wanna get your ass up off the couch, cook some food?"

"I'm having a nice conversation, Lieutenant Havoc," Roy replied severely, then turned back to Winry. "I'm terribly sorry, Miss Rockbell," he said, "but it seems as though there's some sort of cooking competition for which I've lost a third of the time through procrastination." On cue, a soothing voice announced, "Forty minutes remain," and Roy shrugged philosophically. "So if you'll excuse me – "

"Wait," Winry said. "Colonel. How can I get back at Ed?"

"Humiliate him, of course," Roy said, then a most devious idea occurred to him. "Perhaps by sabotaging his cooking."

"Hmm. That's a good thought," she said. "I'd actually do that if you hadn't _killed _my _parents."_

"I didn't!" Roy cried, then considered. "Maybe. I'm not certain. Don't quote me on that."

"Colonel!" Havoc bellowed.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Roy grumbled. "Christ. I have plenty of time, you know. Breda! Where's the rice!" he bellowed.

"I don't know, boss," Breda called back. "I might have left it in your mom's bed."

"No, really," Roy said.

"No, _really,_" Breda returned. "I can't find it, and I think I might have left it in your mom's bed."

For some reason, the question Roy saw fit to ask was, "My mom's _here?"_

"Yeah," Breda said. "At least, I think it's your mom. She _is _a prostitute."

"There's more than one prostitute in the world," Roy said, rolling his eyes. "Christ, Breda. Learn to differentiate. Can you maybe go _get _the rice?"

"Umm..." Breda cleared his throat and shuffled his feet a bit. "It, uh, might not be, um, so much useable anymore."

"Aw, _Christ,_" Roy said. "Well, fix up a new batch, will you?"

"Sure thing," he said, scampering off.

"Now, where are those – " Roy looked around, and conveniently missed the shadowy figure that passed behind him, absconding with his shrimp. "I hate you, Fullmetal," he soliloquied, "for challenging me to this piece of crap. Why, I can clearly picture the day (which was yesterday) when you walked into my office and said, 'Hey, you lazy sack of shit, I – ' "

"Colonel!" Falman called. "We have problems!"

"God_damn,_" the Colonel said, and went to examine.

* * *

"How's the stew coming, Al?" Ed asked. 

"Good," Al said. "And there's no milk left over, because I used it all in the stew."

"Excellent," Ed cackled, rubbing his hands together in unholy glee. "Move over, I wanna taste."

Al obediently handed him the spoon, and Ed pulled out a stepladder, took a step up, dipped up a ladleful of the soup, sipped the soup from the spoon, handed the ladle back, stepped down, put the stepladder away, and then sprayed his mouthful of stew all over his long-suffering little brother.

"OMGWTFBBQ?" he bellowed. "It tastes like _metal!"_

"Fully?" Al asked.

"No, only partially. But still! My culinary creation is ruined! _Ruined!"_

"Here's why, brother," Al said, fishing a hunk of metal from inside the pot. "Someone's thrown a wrench in the works."

"Someone's been monkeying around, eh?" Ed continued.

"No, brother. I wasn't speaking in cliché." Al held up the wrench. "I meant literally, a wrench."

"Oh." Ed shook his head incredulously. "Who could have done this?"

"You don't have any guesses?"

Ed took the wrench from his brother, flipped it over. "Rockbell" was scratched on the back. It clicked, then. "_Pinakoooooooo_!" he screamed to the ceiling.

"Granny Pinako isn't here, brother," Al reminded him. "And she couldn't reach the pot, even if she were."

"Oh. Touché. _Deeeeeeeeeen!_"

"No, brother."

_"Coloneelllllll?"_

"I don't think so. He's been – well, procrastinating, this whole time."

_"Baaaaaaaarryyyyyyy!"_

"Hmm-mmm. He's too busy slaughtering teenagers and then copulating with their corpses."

_"Rooooooooooseeee!"_

"Honestly, brother, do you really think that she has enough brain cells to figure out what metal is?"

"Um...Gosh..._Env-"_

"Brother, I really think it's _Wiiiiiinryyyyyyyyy!"_

"_Wiiiiiiinnnnnrryyyyyyyy?"_

"Yes, brother."

_"Wiiiiiiiinnnnrryyyyyyyy!" _Ed bellowed. "Why would she do this to me?"

"Because she's angry at you for – "

"Shhhh!" Ed hissed. "Don't exposit! That'll just make Colonel Shitfaced happy!" Ed sighed. "Winry, you, you – Odysseus!"

"Again, brother, that's the wrong allusion," Al said. "And there's nothing to do about it now. We'll just have to get started on something else. I've already had the robot-slaves cut some vegetables for you."

"We have robot slaves?" Ed asked. "That's awesome."

* * *

_"Rizaaaaaaaa!" _Roy bellowed as he attempted to light a steak on fire and it blew up in his face. _"Riiiiizaaaaaaaaaaa!"_

Then Clara, who had been hired by Riza, stole his meat, too.

* * *

"Oh! Miss Rockbell!" Riza greeted in surprise as she ran into Winry in a secret dark passageway in the bowels of Kitchen Stadium, arms full of gunpowder, dynamite, syrup of ipecac and the like. 

"Miss Hawkeye!" Winry returned, and shifted her bag full of clanking nasties to her hip. "Oh, don't you look pretty today! I've never seen you with your hair down."

"Thank you!" Riza said. "I normally pin it up when I'm on-duty, but I'm refusing to work for the Colonel today. Oh, and how about you! That color is awfully flattering on you."

"Oh, thanks!" Winry said. "It's mostly just so I can camouflage myself so I can sneak around, but I'll bear that in mind."

"Of course," Riza smiled. Then what Winry had said registered. "Why are you sneaking around, anyway?"

"Oh!" Winry said. "I'm sabotaging Ed because he's a dirty low-down bastard who knows what he did."

"Is that a fact," Riza said.

"Mm-hmm. Why are you back here, Miss Hawkeye?"

"Because I'm working to sabotage the Colonel, because, similarly, he's a dirty low-down bastard who knows what he did."

"Really."

"I am," Riza said. She stared at Winry, who also had grasped the implications of what had just been said. "It seems we face a dilemma, Miss Rockbell. Only one of the two can be sabotaged."

"That's very true," Winry said. "Now, we all know you're in love with the Colonel – "

"I am _not!"_ Riza gasped.

"Oh, really. We all read chapter 39!"

"No no no. We're in the anime timeline," Riza said.

"Really?" Winry asked. "Are you sure?"

"Not entirely. But I think so. Which means that you hate the Colonel, remember?"

"But he was awfully nice back there. He said I was pretty. No, I think we're definitely in manga-land."

"He'd say anything to get inside your pants, Miss Rockbell."

"He was trying to get inside my pants?"

"_No,_" Riza snapped at Winry's eager look. "And anyway, you're in love with Edward, aren't you?"

"Certainly not!" Winry scoffed. "I would never date a man shorter than me!"

"It appears, then, that we're at an impasse," Riza said, and they stared at each other a few moments. Then Riza dropped what she was holding even as Winry tossed her bag to the side, came up with a gun as Winry drew a wrench. They stood, frozen, once again, waiting for the other to make a move, neither blinking. The theme from _The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly _began to play. A head of lettuce tumbled by.

"Yeah, I'm bored," Winry said.

"Mmm. Let's just agree not to get in each others' ways, shall we?"

"Sounds good," Winry said. Each put their respective weapons away and shook hands.

"I mean it, though," Riza said, gathering up her supplies o' doom. "That's really a lovely color."

"Thank you," Winry said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear cutely.

* * *

Two minutes to go, and things weren't going well. 

Ed had managed to assemble an array of respectable food, but then Winry had shown up and asked to borrow some shortening, so Ed had completely demolished his side of the kitchen. Then he'd spent about fifteen minutes searching for a whisk so that he could beat some eggs in a last-minute attempt to present _something. _Al had reminded him that he had automail; that reminder had gone over his head. Joke fully intended. So he'd spent another five minutes looking for the whisk, only then to hit on the idea that Al had suggested some time earlier: to transmute his automail into an eggbeater. Al had rolled his non-existent eyes.

Roy had similarly been destroyed by his own weakness. As Clara had been stealing his third batch of fried shrimp, he'd apprehended her – then realized that she was a nurse-slash-thief dressed in scanty clothing and thus combined three of his dearest fetishes. So he spent about twenty minutes chatting her up, then realized at five minutes left that Riza had destroyed all that he'd prepared up until that moment. He panicked, pulled out a whole chicken from the freezer, stuffed it with newspaper and lit the newspaper on fire. "Yeah, that'll go well," his assistant Havoc was quoted as saying.

Finally, time was up, and the Iron Chefs pulled together their offerings.

* * *

"Iron Chef Fullmetal has, uh, two offerings," the subtitles read as Hughes spoke. "The first is rice." 

Ed spooned out some of the half-crunchy half-watery goop onto several plates and handed it out to the celebrity tasters. The first was, of course, the Fuhrer, laughing inappropriately; the second was Izumi, with Sig standing ominously behind her; and the third was Rose, inexplicably.

"Ha ha ha ha ha!" laughed the Fuhrer in response to the dish.

Izumi simply vomited blood.

Rose said, "Wow, this is incredible. I love the texture. You've really brought out the essence of the secret ingredient."

"The second dish is scrambled eggs!" The tasters dug in.

"Ha ha ha ha! I _saw it coming,_" the Fuhrer said, his voice dripping spoiler-y significance.

"It's rubbery and poor. You've disgraced me and yourself. You may never return to my home."

"I really really really like it just like I like not being thought of as stupid and..."

Next, the challenger!

"The challenger has, similarly, two offerings," the subtitles read. "The first is...rice."

"Hey, there, pretty lady," Roy smirked at Izumi. Sig growled. Roy gulped and ducked his head as he finished spooning out the rice.

"Ha ha ha ha! You truly are the 'Flame Colonel!'" the Fuhrer laughed.

Roy cleared his throat. "Um...Thanks for that. I think. What does that even mean?"

Izumi scowled. "Dog of the military!" she spat.

"...I mean if people keep calling me stupid I'll just snap, I'll just snap, I'll do it and I'll destroy them all, and..."

"And now," the subtitles announced, "the second dish – Chicken a la Halffrozen Stuffedwithflame!"

"Brilliant!" the Fuhrer cackled. "Brilliant!"

"I'm not touching that," Izumi said.

"THE DAY OF RECKONING IS NIGH!" Rose screamed and ran from the studio.

* * *

And now, the judgment. 

"Both of you presented magnificent dishes," Hughes said. Perhaps he spoke with irony; it was hard to tell, as he _was _speaking a foreign language. "Absolutely magnificent. However, there can be only one winner. And – "

"May I say something?" Roy asked quickly.

"No. And – "

"Please?"

"I said no, Roy. And so – "

"_Let me say what I want to say!" _Roy bellowed. "The reason I'm here is because Fullmetal challenged me in place of his yearly evaluation, and the Fuhrer said okay because alchemy started in the kitchen, apparently, and then Riza's mad at me because I tried to get out of paperwork by flirting with her and I called her hot and she got pissed off because she thought I was being facetious and furthermore using her femininity to get out of work, and Fullmetal's girlfriend is pissed off at Fullmetal because she said that he should use her as his chief assistant because she knows how to cook, but he picked his brother instead! And I renounce _in media res, _I renounce it because Virgil was a douche, he was a douchey douchey douche who rested on his laurels instead of actually attempting to make a compelling narrative and counted on the automatic sympathy of the Roman readers for the founder of their nation instead of attempting to make Aeneas an actual sympathetic character, and Homer was an asshole who needed to be told that there's such a thing as 'telescoping'!" He drew in a deep breath. "Okay. That's it."

"And so," Hughes said, utterly unperturbed, "the winner is – " The music from _Backdraft _swelled – "Alphonse Elric!"

"That's the tall suit of armor, Colonel," Riza murmured.

"Lieutenant!" Roy cried joyfully. "You've come back to me!"

"Yes," she said simply.

Alphonse stepped forward, blushing and waving.

"Call me crazy, Lieutenant, but wasn't he not actually participating?"

"He wasn't, sir, but as you should know, the Iron Chef always wins. And Alphonse is the true Iron Chef."

"He's made of _steel_, bitches!" Edward bellowed. "And I hope you're paying royalties for that music!"


	7. Field Day at Central

**Field Day at Central  
**Now, longer than ever!

* * *

Pride was sad. See, being Pride, he liked to be proud of things. Because that was what he did. Was proud. Because he was Pride. It's quite logical. 

But Pride was sad, because he had little of which to be proud. Oh, sure, there was his stunning eyepatch, which was awesome, but he'd had that since he was a baby, so he was really over it now. (Incidentally, Dante was not, indeed, over it: she was still tickled by the explanations she had given for needing to buy an extra-extra-small eyepatch to shopkeepers before she had killed them.) There was also his mustache, which truly was grand enough to make any 20th century dictator burn with envy.

This last one made him chuckle a bit to himself, because "burn with envy" could be taken two ways, because Envy was also a person. Well, homunculus. He was about to write it down, but then he remembered that _he_ was the one who ended up getting burned, while Envy...was bizarrely a dragon. So, once again in a foul mood, Pride fell once again to a-plottin'.

See, Pride was getting older (damn you, Dante!), and his English voice actor sounded rather like Sean Connery (damn you, Funimation!), and he just wasn't _cool _any more. Particularly when he was constantly getting shown up by the likes of, you know, every character in the show below the age of forty-five.

Clearly, the only solution was to make them..._un-_cool.

An evil smile spread slowly across his face. It was, lamentably, rendered rather hilarious by his mustache. Not that anyone would tell him, because they were afraid he'd go all James Bond on their respective asses, in that he would kill them.

He pressed a button on the intercom, which had, of course, been invented in the nineteen-teens. "Sloth?"

"No," responded the voice.

The Fuhrer wondered what had just happened. "What?"

"No, I won't sleep with you to make you seem cooler. Sir."

Pride blinked. "Uh, that wasn't what I was going to ask."

"Oh. Beg pardon, sir. Please, go ahead."

"I was just...but you were considering that?"

"I was never considering it, sir."

"But you'd been thinking about it."

"Please. You're married."

"Well, yeah...But so was – uh..." Pride searched for someone who had committed adultery. Someone famous and awesome. However, it appeared as though although intercoms had been invented, adultery had not; as such, he was stuck with, "You wouldn't even have to participate, really. I mean, you're Sloth! You'd probably just kind of...lie there anyway, right?"

"The image that summons is nearly as grotesque as you are, and I can barely contain my own vomit," Sloth replied placidly. "What was it you needed?"

"Love," Pride said forlornly, "and some sort of large-scale event to destroy any sort of dignity that my underlings might have."

"Ah," Sloth said. "Field day."

"Your plan sounds intriguing," Pride said, steepling his fingers and smiling hilariously. "Please. Elaborate." And then he went over and looked up "field day" in the dictionary, because Sloth wouldn't elaborate, because she's Sloth and that would have been too much work. But what Pride found in that dictionary – oh, what he found! Was absolutely nothing, because "field day" is a slang term, and slang terms weren't included in the dictionary in nineteen-teen. But then he went and asked his son. And he liked what he heard.

* * *

"That's it," Edward announced, "I'm quitting the military." 

Only one person reacted to this statement. That one person was, of course, Scar, who had been coming up to murder the massed state alchemists but was overcome with glee at this sudden announcement, as he believed that Edward was quitting the military so that they could run off and be together forever and have _non_-angsty buttsex, for a change. So he ran home to write a letter to the chief of the Ishvaran people about this happy change in his life and to slip into something more...comfortable (for the trip; the clothes he was wearing weren't very good traveling clothes, so he put on a pair of sweatpants and a cute sweater).

Scar, however, was wrong. This would ultimately end badly both for our heroes and the postal service. Not the band. The one that carries letters.

In the meantime, the others out on the street were too busy gaping at the memo pinned up on the front gate to react to Edward's melodramatic declaration, even though he continued to speak. Rail, really.

"This is goodbye, suckers," he was saying even as Mustang tore down the notice with his one good hand to examine it more closely.

"Normally, I'd greet the news that the offices are closed with cries of joy," Roy said, "but this is like opening a bottle of scotch and finding water inside."

"How're those AA meetings going, Colonel?" Havoc asked.

"I don't care about how the AA meetings are going," Falman said, "so much as how the meetings of the 'Coming-Up-With-Metaphors-That-Make-Sense' club are going."

"Sayonara," Edward continued.

"Shut up," Roy said absently, still reading over the notice. "All personnel required to participate..."

"I know!" Ed said, "That's why I quit, and auf wiedersehen, people. Toodles."

"What the hell is this crap, Lieutenant?"

Riza took the paper from his hands, gave it a quick going-over, and said, "It appears as though His Excellency believes we don't, as a whole, get enough exercise."

"Ohhh," Breda snickered, "your mom keeps me pretty in shape."

Riza rolled her eyes and dutifully responded with, "Your mother liked my shape last night." Then she looked back down at the paper and continued: "We're to engage in various track-and-field-esque activities – running, games, the like. In addition, as part of our military outreach program – " She glanced up. "We have a military outreach program?"

"Farewell," Ed tried again.

Fury reached over and took the Exposition cap from Riza's head and tugged it snug about his ears. "Yes!" he replied enthusiastically. "According to the Fuhrer, 'Indoctrinate them young, and they might not rebel against the repressive mother-state when they're in that volatile free-love college stage.'"

"See ya. Adios."

"He does have a way with words," Riza murmured, referring to the Fuhrer, rather than Edward, who didn't so much. Then she snatched her Exposition hat back from Fury and placed it back upon her head. "As part of the...Right. We're to also incorporate some of the youth of Central into our programs."

"I incorporated some of the youth of Central into my bed...last night," Armstrong said, sparkling.

"It's, uh..." Riza cleared her throat. "The joke is supposed to involve someone's mother, sir."

Armstrong stared down at her, still twinkling. "What joke is that, Lieutenant?"

Fury groaned, and Havoc dropped his head in despair. "Note to self:" said Hughes, who had evidently risen once again from the grave in order to enjoy the exploits of his coworkers, "Never never never let Major Armstrong babysit my Elysia."

"What's going on now?" Armstrong boomed. "I don't understand. They were orphans, and they needed somewhere to sleep. It's part of the generosity technique that's been passed down through generations of Armstrongs."

"As a preparation for the day when I bring democracy to Amestris, quick poll!" Roy said. "Raise your hand if you're disturbed." He counted. "Okay. Thank you."

"You weren't disturbed, sir?" Riza asked, slipping her "Exposition Provocation" bracelet around her wrist. "You didn't raise your hand."

"My arm's broken, Lieutenant," Roy reminded her, motioning toward the slinged-up limb. "And I wonder whose fault that is."

"I thought you were attacked by the Evil Alchemist, sir," she replied innocently, "not waylaid by a group of fangirls who were convinced they'd get to see your pecs if they broke a couple of limbs."

"You were?" Havoc asked.

"No!" Roy lied, even though Havoc seemed more envious than anything. "She was speaking hypothetically."

"Um, Colonel?" Fury ventured. "Wasn't that many, many chapters ago, and wasn't your arm perfectly fine in the last chapter?"

"_No,_" Roy said. "What are you saying, I'm faking it?"

"Your _mom_ faked it last night." Breda looked around, confused, as several dirty, dirty-minded people snickered derisively.

Edward, however, was not amused. "I'm fucking leaving, guys!" he bellowed. "Colonel Turdy? You're not going to stop me?"

"I'm defending my honor, Fullmetal," Roy replied, "and the noble cause of my injuries. I don't have time to deal with you getting all pissy because you can't play basketball."

Ed's head whipped around to glare at Colonel Shit. "What. Is that. Supposed. To mean."

Roy held up his good hand, fingers spread, in a gesture of innocence. "Nothing, nothing, Fullmetal. I wasn't implying a damned thing."

Ed stalked toward Roy, breathing menace like most animate non-plants non-fish non-robots breathe air. "I. Would. Hope. Not."

"Though – " The Future Fuhrer of Amestris rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "No one else is quitting over this. I mean, it's an inconvenience, but nothing to quit over. Unless, of course, there's some other reason you don't want to participate on the basketball court – "

"There. Is. No. Reason. Why."

"Still, it's suspicious."

"Christ," Havoc sighed anachronistically (ana-dimensional-istically?), "just call him short already and get this over with."

Roy shrugged with one good shoulder. "Shorty."

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL HE COULD FIT THROUGH THE BASKETBALL HOOP!" Ed bellowed.

"Whatever happened to Fullmetal being serene, Al?" Roy asked.

"Apparently, serenity gets boring after a while," Al said.

"Oh, really?" Falman asked, turning toward the camera. "That's not what I've heard. I've heard that _Serenity _is a deep and compelling moviegoing experience which nevertheless manages to maintain a high level of excitement from beginning to end."

The others stared at him a moment. "Did he become a corporate shill, or something?" Havoc asked.

Fury shook his head. "Worse. A Whedon shill. He thinks that if he promotes the movie enough, people will buy the DVD and they'll start making new episodes of _Firefly._"

"Ohhhhh," the others chorused together.

Ed, however, cared for none of this. "I WILL SMASH YOU, FUCK-FOR-BRAINS! I'M GONNA DESTROY YOU! YOU WILL GO DOWN, FUCKING DOWN!"

"Now, now, Fullmetal," Roy said. "Remember what happened the last time you swore you would defeat me."

"I _won_," Ed said.

"No, no – " Roy amended. "In the manga."

"We're talking about the anime here, not the manga."

"Didn't you see all the references to chapter thirty-nine back in chapter four, Fullmetal? And your girlfriend definitively decided in chapter five that she actually would not try to hack me to death with a machete when you and your brother weren't looking. She totally would do that in the anime. We're clearly in the Mangaverse."

"Yes, well, you seem to be conveniently forgetting the fact that Sloth is a character, which places this squarely in anime territory."

"Sloth is a character? Where?"

"Like, 1200 words ago, which, by the way, Jah-_heesus._"

"Yeah, no kidding. 'Plot progression? Where?'" Then the two of them laughed together, because they each had the exact same sense of humor, and, really, Ed was just a younger version of Roy. And then the fact that the two of them were exactly the same made each hate the other once again, so Ed got back to glaring and Roy got back to mocking.

"Don't forget, though, Fullmetal, I was nobly injured in the course of battle with the Evil Alchemist, who was _not – _" He shot a glare toward Riza. "A group of fangirls deadset on Mustang's Stallion."

"Ew," said Ed, which, of course, meant that he was totally hot for the Stallion. And "Ew," said the audience, so we know what you're thinking, too.

"So I won't be able to play," Roy said, "even though I rather suspect that I could win with one arm broken."

"Then try, you herpes-covered piece of horse shit. Just try and play me, you and me, one-on-one. Come on," Ed jeered.

Roy panicked and looked toward Riza for help. She sighed, rolled her eyes, and said, "That won't do, Edward. The Colonel needs his healing time."

"See?" Mustang smirked, privately rejoicing at his adjutant's genius.

"Speaking of which," Hughes said, "isn't he a Brigadier General?"

Panicking once again, the Colonel (?) bellowed, "Your mom went brigadier on _my _general last night!"

There was a puzzled silence, until a voice in a megaphone bellowed, "You there! Lazeabouts!" The Fuhrer, for some reason, was on top of a building, shouting down at them all. "It's time to start the festivities!"

"Oh, the festivities were already started!" Breda called up at the dictator of his repressive fatherland of choice who, doubtless, could have him executed on a whim. "In your mother's bed, last night!"

There was some good-natured laughter and catcalls from everyone except Ed and Al, the former of whom retched and the latter of whom groaned, because they knew who Pride's mother was. Think about it. Because she created him...Yeah. _Yeah. _Ew. No! Not that kind of "Ew."

The Fuhrer, for his part, chortled heartily at the crack and made a mental note to destroy any chance Breda might have had at happiness. "Yes, yes, my mother, good one," Pride chuckled. "Now, the children will be arriving soon. I expect you all to look like idiots." The entire group stared up at him, and he realized what he'd said. He covered admirably: "...Of _glee!"_

"There's something very wrong with this man, Hawkeye," Mustang whispered.

"Yes, sir," she agreed, though thinking of someone else entirely as she nodded. Someone to whom she was talking. Because if she thought he was an idiot, there was romantic tension, exclamation point, exclamation point, exclamation point, one one one five, less than three.

"Your jobs," the Fuhrer bellowed, "are listed on the back of that piece of paper."

Hawkeye turned it over. "Huh. Well, look at that. Wonder how I didn't notice that?"

"Maybe someone needs her _eyes checked!"_ guffawed Archer, who was standing nearby. In response, Hawkeye calmly pulled out her gun and blasted a hole through his kneecap.

As he screamed and writhed on the ground nearby, Hawkeye began to read off the jobs of each individual.

_

* * *

__"Edward and Alphonse will set up the slip-and-slide..."_

"This is fun, right, Brother?" Al asked. It was so hot out that his body had heated up to the point where his fingers burned holes through the plastic, but he didn't notice, because he was, of course, made of metal.

"Fun," Edward said. "Boy. I hate children, Alphonse. I'm really starting to see the appeal of gay sex."

"Are you, Brother?" Alphonse asked neutrally.

"Mm. No possible chance of reproduction."

"What about mpreg fics, though?" Al pointed out, then realized his hand was turning blue and goop-covered. He tried to shake off a bit of the melted plastic, to no avail.

"Touché," Edward responded, then sighed and flopped down on the grass. "And that would be even worse, because _I'd_ inevitably end up pregnant, wouldn't I?"

"You are the uke, Brother," Alphonse said philosophically. "You know, Brother, sex with quasi-animate objects also carries no risk of reproduction."

"Hmm," Edward said, squinting up at the sun. "Are you hitting on me, Al?"

"What?"

"Nothing," he sighed, then stretched out on the grass.

"Besides, Brother, you like children," Alphonse reminded him. "Elysia, Nina..."

"Niiinaaaa," Ed sobbed.

"That little girl from episode five, that little girl from episodes 11 and 12, Belial-chan, Winry back when she was little, that little girl from episode 4, that little girl from the first PlayStation game, that little girl from the drama CD, the Fuhrer's poor dead son, the little girl from the upcoming PlayStation game, countless Mary-Sues..."

"Ehh," Ed groaned. "They're not children, though, judging by their racks."

"They have the minds of children, though, and that's what counts, isn't it, Brother?" Al asked, finally wiping his hands off best he could on the grass and sitting down beside Edward. "Children are cute like kittens, Brother."

"Demanding, demanding kittens," Edward sighed.

_

* * *

__"...while Colonel (?) Mustang supervises the children's softball game."_

"I hate children, Lieutenant," Roy announced, blissfully unaware of the parallels between his conversation and the previous one.

"Oh?" Hawkeye replied calmly.

"I do. I really, really do. You know why?"

Hawkeye clapped and shouted "Good effort, good effort" as one of the children was knocked unconscious by an errant softball. "Because they're entitled little shits with large heads, sir?"

"Because they're entitled little shits with large heads," Mustang confirmed.

"And therefore you see yourself in them."

"Why, yes, I – hey! My head isn't _large, _Hawkeye!"

"I love children, personally," Hawkeye said. "I'd want to have dozens and dozens."

"Perhaps I was quick to judge," Mustang started, but then the game wrapped up and the myriad children of Central came trotting up to the two.

"We get ice cweam now," lisped Elysia.

"Thatta fact," Roy said. "I was under the impression that the _winning _team got ice cream."

"Nuh-uh," said the adorable little girl from the train from episode five. "Evewwyone gets it."

"Everyone," Roy repeated.

"Ed...o...wah...do..." replied Ninalexander.

"But that doesn't make any _sense!" _Roy said. "Both teams get equal reward? Even though – "

"Give it up, Colonel," Hawkeye said.

"No!" Roy responded. "I will not sit idly by as these children _rape _Adam Smith _up the ass!"_

"You're not fooling anyone," Hokuai-chuui said. "We all know you're a Marxist at heart."

"Has Karl Marx been invented yet, even?"

"Oh, sure. I expect Drachma'll be having their parallel revolution in a matter of minutes."

"Edo...wah...do..." Ninalexander reminded gently. "O...nii...san..."

"Fine, fine," Roy replied, "ice cream's in the freezer, help yourselves, vote Mustang/Elric '18."

"Hee hee hee hee," giggled a nearby fangirl. "Mustang/Elric. Hee hee he- " Then she fell off a cliff.

"Wow," Roy commented.

"Yeah," Riza said.

"Didn't know there was a cliff there," Roy said.

"Nope."

_

* * *

__"During that time, there will be free absinthe in the mess hall!"_

"Yeer a real pretty ladeee," Havoc slurred, a bit of green, wormwood-soaked liquid slopping out the side of his mug.

"Thankshhh," Fury sloshed back.

_

* * *

__"Then it's time for lunch!"_

"Wait, wait, wait," Roy said, coming into the mess hall, children trailing behind him, to see emptied bottles, vomit, people huddled in misery. "There was _free booze? _Hawkeye, when did this happen?"

"I read the sequence of events to you," she reminded him. "You did know about it."

"But..." he stammered. "But..."

"Colonel, what about AA?" Riza said gently.

"AA? _AA? _Lieutenant, there was _booze._"

"Yeah?"

"And it was _free!_"

"Yeah," Riza said, and Roy slumped down at the nearest table, his head buried in his hand.

"Lieutenant?" he said, voice trembling. "Why does God hate me?"

She went over and sat next to him and patted him gently on the back. "There, there," she said. "He doesn't hate you. He just thinks you're a wretched, petty man who warrants a low but consistent level of misery in his life so that he can't really complain but will never know what true happiness is. He doesn't think of you as anywhere near important enough to actually hate."

Roy sniffled. "You sure know how to cheer a guy up, Hawkeye," he said.

"I try my best, sir," she said.

"Yeah, yeah," Edward, who had come in halfway through the conversation, said, "excellent, fantastic, hatred of the divine, where's the _food_?"

"Hello, Edward Elric!" boomed Armstrong, who, despite having demonstrated his family's artistic iron liver technique some twenty-seven times, did not seem in the least disoriented. He stood behind a counter, ladle in hand. "The Fuhrer has assigned me to serve this food to you!"

"I like this guy," Edward said. "Why did I never realize before how much I like this guy?"

"Modesty requires that I blush, Edward Elric!" Armstrong said.

"Yeah, whatever, food," Edward said, grabbing a tray and walking over.

"Guess the honeymoon's over," Mustang commented.

Armstrong chortled and slopped a bit of slop onto a plate, then handed it over. Ed looked down at it, an expression of horrified fascination on his face.

"Sweet cousin of shit, what _is_ it?" He wiggled the plate back and forth, shook his head when the glop stayed in the same place. "It looks like a failed human transmutation."

Breda had come up behind Edward, and snorted at that. "Your _mom _looks like a failed human transmutation," he slurred.

Edward snapped around to stare the rapidly-sobering man down, fury etched across his face. "My mother," he whispered, "was a _saint._" He scooped up a fingerful of the food, which sizzled when it hit the metal of the automail, and smeared it down Breda's front.

This was enough provocation for the drunken Havoc to bellow, "Food fight!" This was an unwise move, as the only people who had any food were Edward and Armstrong. The former simply kept throwing his food at Mustang with devastating accuracy; the latter demonstrated his artistic food-throwing technique; all the rest of the crowd had to fight back with was empty bottles of alcohol, and as the vast majority were drunk and God hated Mustang just enough to spoil his aim, within five minutes the scene was less like Carthage at the end of the first Punic war, more like Carthage at the end of the third. There was even salt involved! It was just on the margarita glasses, was all.

"Nice trick," slurred the wounded Hannibal - 'scuse, Breda - at Armstrong.

"It's not my trick," Armstrong boomed back. "It's my allusion."

"I think we've lost focus," Riza said.

* * *

_"Finally, the event everyone is waiting for. Somehow, at once the great-granddaddy and mother of all events. The event that is at once both genders and all generations and all family members and appeals to everyone. Among the apostles of all previous events, this event is Jesus, yes! Another dimension's lord and savior. So put that in your pipe and smoke it, Trebeck. ...Lord I wish I didn't sound so very much like Sir Sean Connery."_

"Well, of course I can't do it," Mustang was saying. "Broken arm, remember?"

"It's not broken, sir," Riza said.

Roy made quick sharp cutting motions across his throat, then said, even more loudly and heartily, "Really is a pity, though!"

"Sir," Riza said, "once you play, we can go home."

"No," Mustang said.

"Please," she said.

"No."

"What about for some nookie?"

"Tempting, but no."

"You didn't let me finish. Some nookie from your counterpart from across the Gate."

"Ooooh," Roy said, quite intrigued. "No lover in the world more skilled than Roy Mustang, or Randall Mustenhouffer or whatever it would be. Hmmm. All right!" He turned to the world at large, all of whom had heard his previous exchange, and announced, "I'm doing it for the children." Then, every bit as loudly as before: "That I might have with my clone through the magical powers of mpreg." He hesitated. "I was supposed to lower my voice there, wasn't I, Hawkeye?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is Fullmetal ready?"

"Yes, sir. He's quite eager to play the one-armed bandit," she said, casting a meaningful glance at his broken arm and thinking of the hearts he had stolen.

"Great, I'm an alcoholic and he's a gambling addict. We're fucked-up people. Hey, Fullmetal!" he called across the basketball court. "I have a feeling this is going to be a pretty _short _game!"

"You're going down, bastard!" Fullmetal bellowed back.

"See, a better retort there would have been 'Oh, are you going to lose that quickly?'," Roy said to no one in particular and smiled at his own wit. This was why he had such a reputation for brilliance. Also why he was able to win at the Monkey Island games so handily.

Roy walked onto the court, rubbing the cast on his arm pointedly. Edward joined him, exhaling smoke from his nose.

"When did you start smoking?" Roy asked.

"When my heart caught fire," Edward growled.

Roy fluttered his eyelids. "How sweet."

"With _rage, _douchebag!" Edward bellowed, and bent down to pick up the basketball. "Let's get it on!"

"He's more forward than I would have expected," Roy said.

"I'm gonna kill you!" Edward bellowed and started bouncing the ball. Roy got into his basketball stance. The onlookers leaned forward. Tension mounted. Fury started a drumroll. The music from _Backdraft _swelled. The two combatants as one tensed, and -

"Edward Elriiiic, despised of Ishvara!" Scar bellowed, running onto the basketball court. The onlookers all reached for their weapons, then forgot what they were doing as they got a good look at him, dressed in sweatpants and a really cute sweater and carrying a suitcase, a smear of sunblock on his nose.

"Yeahwhat?" Edward said with surprising aplomb, looking at Scar a little askance.

"I'm ready to go!" he said. "And - " He leaned in close to Edward and whispered, "I'm not wearing underwear."

"Um. Okay." Edward blinked. "Go where?"

"Why, on our getaway, of course!" Scar said. "You...You were leaving the military for me, and I..." Scar's brow furrowed. "This isn't...ringing any bells?"

"Sorry," Edward said, shaking his head, then looking up at Scar. "You're not...Wait a second, are you..."

Scar gaped, unable to believe he had misinterpreted everything. He clenched his hands into fists, humiliated, then -

"EDWARD ELRIC, DESPISED OF ISHVARA, PREPARE TO DIE!" he bellowed. "I merely said those things to throw you off-balance, and I see that it worked, now die!"

"Wait, fuck," Ed said, moments before his head exploded. Then Scar went on a rampage and killed everyone there. Soon all that was left was a lone tumbleweed, several dozen corpses, and the single man, covered in blood.

"I'm so lonely," Scar sniffed, wiping away a single tear.

Riza finished reading the list of activities, then looked up at the assembled military persons. Roy nodded thoughtfully, while Edward looked a little nauseated.

"Okay, quick poll, in preparation for democracy, et cetera, et cetera," Roy said. "In light of Scar's rampage of death we've just witnessed in that flashforward, who's for taking one of their sick-days today?"

Even Roy himself managed to free his fake broken arm to vote for that.

* * *

(A/N: AND HERE IT IS, ONLY ONE YEAR AFTER IT WAS STARTED. Seriously. I started this mofo of a chaptera YEAR ago. Special thanks go to Alphonse Elric - pardon me, Andrew Wilson - and Edward Elric - pardon me, Sara Sulser (Shrimptastic on this site) - for the idea and the rampant Elricest. Heart! And thanks go to Lauren Mack for the "Your mom is a failed human transmutation" exchange. And thanks to me for being even slower in the writing than I am in the head. Heart heart. And thanks to Sigur Ros for rockin' in the free world.) 


	8. RoyEd, But Not In the Way You Think

**"Roy/Ed, But Not in the Way You Think"**  
We hope for Colonel Mustang's erec...What?

* * *

"Hawkeye?" Mustang said, perusing the newspaper before him. "People _vote_for Fuhrer?"

"Yes, sir," Hawkeye replied in full exposition mode. "After a long and bitter campaign season starting roughly in January of every fourth year, unless of course you watch C-SPAN in which case it starts the January after the previous election, people gather on the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November in order to vote for the candidate who pissed them off the least."

"The first Tuesday after the first Monday?" Mustang said. "It seems as though holding it on a Tuesday would have the potential to systemically exclude those who are forced to work long hours."

"Why, yes, sir," Hawkeye said. "Yes, it does, doesn't it?"

"Well, those who came up with the idea must have had some particular reason for holding the election on that day."

"Well, sir, no reason that's relevant today," Hawkeye said. "Yet for some reason no one sees fit to change it. I do not know why."

There was a slightly awkward silence a moment, then the "The More You're Angry About" star appeared over their heads. Mustang nodded, satisfied.

"Anyway, what month is it?"

"January, sir."

"January!" Mustang said with enormous glee. "There's still time! There's still time to set things right!"

Hawkeye shook her head. "No, sir; the turkey's been rotten for two weeks and Tiny Tim is dead."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It was an allusion, sir," Hawkeye said.

"Ah. An allusion. Yes." He twiddled his fingers.

"No, sir," Hawkeye said, "not a trick, an _allusion._"

"Oh," Mustang said. "Like Poe."

"Or Chaucer."

"Yes." There was a moment as they both nodded to themselves. "Anyway," Mustang said, "why haven't I known about the election thing before?"

"Because I kept it from you," Hawkeye said, "in an elaborate construct rather along the lines of such excellent films as _Good Bye Lenin! _or_The Truman Show._"

"Ah-hah," Roy said. "But now I've learned of the truth through this newspaper. Is this not a significant oversight?"

"Yes," Riza said calmly, "I suppose it is."

Roy squinted at Riza. "Are you drunk right now?" he asked. "Because it is_not cool _for you to be drunk when I'm not drunk."

"AA..."

"Is going fine," Roy said, pulling out a hip-flask and taking a deep swig from it. He met Riza's eyes defiantly. "It's just pumpkin juice," he gargled, then swallowed.

"Okay, _Barty Crouch Jr.,_" Riza said.

"Augh!" Roy cried. "Ssssspoiler!"

"And you know what? R.A.B.? Is actually _Regulus Black - _"

"Riza!" he cried. "Damn you to hell! You know how much I hate spoilers!"

"Oh, come on, that one was obvious," Riza said. "But you know what else, Roy?"

"No," he whispered, sensing that she was going for the big guns.

"The Red Testament..."

"Nooo!" Roy howled. "Not Xenosaga! Without its myriad mysteries, that game is nothing! _Nothing!_"

Quickly, he covered his ears and closed his eye, and stayed that way for some time. Finally, when he guessed she was done, he tentatively started listening again.

"...the motherfucking _plane,_" she finished, and looked at him with great amusement. "How you holding up, there, Big Guy?"

"I feel unsafe," he moaned. "How could you do this, _Brutus?_"

"The spoilers or the deceit?"

"Both?"

"The spoilers were just out of malice," she chuckled. "The lies were because I knew if you heard of the election, you'd enter the election."

"And...?" Mustang said.

"And...The Fuhrer is not a charismatic guy. Ask yourself: how does he keep winning elections?"

Roy thought. "Brainwashing."

"No," Riza said.

"Bribery."

"No."

He thought a while more, then hopefully offered, "Money?"

"That falls under the heading of bribery."

"Candy."

"Again bribery."

"Oh. Okay, how?"

She posed dramatically and intoned, "_Death._"

Roy sighed, hunched over, and poured himself a glass of scotch, then loosed his collar and unbuttoned his jacket. Sadly, he looked up to Hawkeye for just a moment, then back down and said, his voice hushed over the mournful harmonica music, "You mean to say that that, too, isn't bribery?"

Hawkeye raised an eyebrow. "Cute."

The harmonica music stopped; he looked up again and grinned brightly. "I cut myself!" he chirped.

"And an admirable job you do of it," she said. "Honestly, sir, I'm being serious here."

"Oh, really?" Roy asked with a devilish grin. "Tell me, how _is _Professor Lupin in bed?"

"Ha, ha," she said. "Well, you should just be glad that I'm not _actually_Sirius, because he's - "

"_Spoiler!_" Roy shrieked.

Riza shook her head. "The book's been out for, what, three years now?" she said. "I don't understand why you don't just _read _the damn thing. I think they even have it on Sparknotes now."

"Oh, c'mon," Roy said. "Thing's fucking _long._ Let's be realistic now."

"I thought you liked long things," Riza said.

"What, like your mom's...No, sorry," he said. "On second thought, that makes no sense."

"No, it does. So it was for your own protection, really," she continued, leaving Roy in a stew of his own confusion. "Because you, Colonel, are foolhardy."

"Well, I'm not foolhardy any more!" he said, standing dramatically and trying to pound one fist on the table but missing so that he just smacked himself in the thigh. "I'm going to _enter _that election, and I'm going to win it! Hawkeye, I'm going straight for the top!"

"Of the Fuhrer's death list."

"Yes!" he cried, pumping one fist in the air and clipping an overhanging lamp so that it swung away and then back to smack him in the forehead. "Ow, dammit."

And Hawkeye folded her arms across her chest, content that the Colonel was safe, because who in the hell would vote for him?

* * *

And that was just what Colonel Mustang was going to find out.

He was pretty certain he had the dark-haired vote, because he, like they, had dark hair, and thus they had something in common. So he decided he needed a running mate who could make up for his weaknesses.

"A running mate?" Hawkeye asked when he asked her. "Isn't the rule that you secure your party's nomination, first?"

"Ah, but in the parties _I _host, there are no rules," Roy said.

"And no opponents?" she asked.

"That as well," he said. "But mostly no rules. Oh, except, you know, no feet on the sofa. That's a rule. And - I ran out of vermouth, and vodka martinis are kinda nasty, so no drinking those. And no playing darts." He shook his head. "God, no playing darts!"

"I think your pun has gotten the better of you, sir."

"Looks like. Anyway, whaddaya say, _Vice-Fuhrer Hawkeye?_"

Hawkeye could hardly agree, as she'd already invested too much time and money into sabotaging Roy's campaign, because that's what she does in every damned chapter. "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't think I have sufficient vice to be the Vice-Fuhrer. You need someone much more vice-ious than I am."

So. Roy needed someone filled with vice. Someone steeped in sin, someone who had done terrible things and was paying the price - someone who had _all the incestuous subtext in the world._

* * *

"Ew, get away, freak," said Russell Tringham.

* * *

"Little busy here," said Dean Winchester, loading his shotgun with rock salt.

* * *

"But only one of us could run, and I'm afraid I couldn't bear to be parted with my darling brother."

"Hikaru..." Kaoru sighed, melting.

* * *

"Oh," Natalia said, covering her mouth in surprise. "I'd never actually thought of that. Luke, is our engagement creepy?"

Luke looked at Natalia, then looked over at Asch, then looked back at Natalia, then looked back at Asch, then looked back at Natalia. "It could be worse." Then he looked back at Asch and sighed wistfully.

* * *

Setsuna just sat there, shaking his head, failing to act, and getting way cooler characters killed off. "Sara..." he whispered.

* * *

"What?" laughed George Michael nervously. "That's, that's absurd, I would never...Is it, is it hot in here? I'm, uh..." He took a deep drink of water. "Good water."

* * *

"I fear I cannot run, friend from the future  
As only those mistaken think this incest  
And kingship, furthermore, is burdensome.  
It's not like I would kill for it, you know?" said Claudius.

* * *

"Dogs can pretend to be God, but it's just putting things backwards," River said, then smiled most unsettlingly.

* * *

Hawkeye informed him later on that his meeting with Lelouch Lamperouge had not gone too well, though he couldn't really remember what had happened. However, he had absolutely no desire to bother the charming young man again. Also his wallet was gone.

* * *

"What?" Edward asked, then scoffed. "You're asking me for a favor?"

"No," Mustang said quickly. "It's not a favor. I am offering you the advantage of jumping onto the Mustang Train. Destination: The Future."

Edward stared at Mustang a moment, then shook his head. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. You are one hundred percent going to lose."

"What, not like it's my campaign slogan or anything, but if you'll excuse me a moment." Quickly, he pulled out a flashlight and flashed a hasty, desperate message at the nearby poster factory, then turned back to Fullmetal with a charming smile. "Come on, it's not like it takes two eyes to see what's best for the country." His smile faded slightly as Edward looked on, stony-faced. "Excuse me." He pulled out his flashlight again, then turned back to Ed. "Roy Mustang: Not in Favor of Genocide." He spread his hands when Fullmetal crossed his arms. "Fine, what would you suggest?"

"How about 'Roy Mustang: Utterly Devoid of Redeeming Qualities.'"

"Brother, that's not fair," said Al. "He has a couple."

"Well, thanks, Alphonse," Mustang said. "Why, that praise is so faint that even Fullmetal can't argue against - "

"No he doesn't," Ed said.

"I stand corrected."

"Sure he does!" Alphonse said. "He's, um...Lieutenant Hawkeye is really nice, and so was Mr. Hughes, and we'd never have met them if it weren't for him. Oh, and Mr. Havoc, too! All of them, really."

"Uh-huh," Edward said.

"And, um...He, um...He's got...really nice hair, and...And he felt really bad after he ruthlessly murdered our best friend's parents in cold blood after listening to them beg for him to spare them, not for their own sakes, but for their poor daughter who was left almost alone in the world as a direct result of his conscienceless brutality. And nice teeth, too."

Mustang grinned, showing off those teeth of his. "Oh, you're too kind..._you._" He was so pleased, he even decided to learn the tall metal one's name.

"That's not enough." Fullmetal crossed his arms.

Finally, it was time to pull out the big guns. "I'll pay you a hundred cens."

Edward turned his head to the side and contemptuously spat. The loogie landed on his shoulder. "No."

"A thousand."

"Go to hell."

"Two thousand."

"Okay." Ed turned to his brother. "This is gonna suck."

"It'll be fine, Brother! He can act as a vain puppet-king as you manipulate him into doing your well-intentioned but ruthless bidding."

"Oh, Alphonse," Edward said fondly, leaning a little too close to his younger brother. "My better half."

Mustang's grin only widened. Why, these two were the Vice-est a Fuhrer could hope for!

* * *

The Mustang train picked up steam as it left the station, and was soon barreling along the tracks of demagoguery towards the cliff of victory as Fullmetal ably fought off the hijackers who fit uneasily at best into this strange metaphor. Mustang, a charming and handsome war hero, appealed to women and veterans, while Edward was well-liked by the young and the creepy. And whenever they ran into difficulty, Al's army of attack kittens would be on the scene silencing them, because there's nothing like a political campaign to get one to compromise one's ideals for practicality!

Soon it was time for the first debate.

"Don't worry, Fullmetal," Mustang said to the rather nervous-looking Edward. "I'll be great."

"I fucking hate you," Ed replied. Mustang shot him the immortal ironic finger guns, then walked onstage, waving.

Hughes, who, following his success on the popular program _Iron Chef _had gotten his own talking headless show, featuring anyone who'd encountered Scar, was the moderator of the debate.

"In the Red Corner, representing the Narcissus Party - " really, the name had just spoken to Roy - "is Roy Mustang; Colonel, possibly, depending on the timeline; twenty-nine years old, maybe, depending on the timeline; and possessed of more angst than can be encompassed in a dozen fanfics. He's a decorated war veteran, strategically single, and has great teeth."

Roy shot his friend the immortal quasi-ironic finger guns. "Thanks, old man."

"Accompanying him is Edward Elric, who - " Hughes looked down at his cards. "Is being paid 2000 cens to be here." Hughes covered his mike, which did absolutely nothing, given that his hand had as much substance as "The Conqueror of Shamballa" (oh snap!). "Edward, you do realize that that's not very much money, right?"

"Yes?" said Edward. "Why, how much is it?"

"Let me put it this way: if one were to convert cuteness into money, that would be not even a millionth of an Elysia." He beamed. "Of course, that's not saying much, as a millionth of infinity is still infinity."

"Get on with it," growled Mustang.

"Yes! Get on with it!" agreed Edward.

"Get on with it!" chorused the entire audience.

"Oh, thank you, thank you," said Hughes. "And in the Blue Corner...Maybe you should have been in the Blue Corner, given your uniform, Roy. Though it seems like all the Colonels have blue uniforms nowadays. You, Jade...I can't think of a third - "

"_Get on with it!_" bellowed God, then got back to thinking about how awesome it would be if there were some sort of crossover featuring Jade and Mustang, especially if they made out. Oh, I'm sorry, that wasn't God, that was me.

"In the Blue Corner," Hughes finally continued, "is their opponent, Zolf J. Kimbley. He's a lunatic and a sociopath, who, in spite of his charming exterior, will kill you as soon as look at - " An aide came up and whispered in Hughes' ear. "I'm sorry, there's been a mistake - he'll kill you _sooner _than look at you. Also, despite earlier rumors, he is _not_ dead. Those who started those rumors recently went back and wondered what the hell they were driving at there. Was it a _Sixth Sense _parody? An obscure and forgotten literary reference? A desperate attempt to end an unfunny segment? What cannot be questioned is that it was, like everything else, self-indulgence tempered by a few jokes in dire need of editing and frequently spell-check, as is this very speech. And his running mate Archer."

"Fullmetal, this is the best news I've heard since _According to Jim _got cancelled!" Mustang squealed sotto voce. "We're running against Kimbley!"

"You didn't know? It's been on the news," Ed said, then tilted his head to the side, considered carefully, and added, "dumbass."

"I don't trust the news. Full of facts."

"And I don't see why it's so great. Amestris loves a sadist."

"Yes," Mustang agreed, "but it _hates _a geek. I mean, okay. One, his name is Zolf. Two, look at us. You're little, sure - " He raised his voice over Shorty Shorty Shorty's bellow. "But you're pretty good-looking, and me - I was voted Homecoming King for every year I was in high school and three when I _wasn't. _Zolf there? Was voted Most Likely To Be Wedgied by Homecoming King. I made sure the peoples' voice was heard." Thankfully, the light board operator knew to turn down the stage lights, which would blind the audience if they were left up while Mustang smiled. "The voting public, Fullmetal, is that accepted-but-not-cool kid who will express disapproval of these petty popularity games but as soon as an alpha-male comes by will roll over, belly at the ready. I am the captain of the basketball team. Our esteemed opponent has a bumper sticker (on his binder) that says 'My Other Car is the Millenium Falcon.' Comprendes, mi amigo?"

Edward stared at his commanding officer. "The only way you could be more loathsome right now is if you were actually made of milk."

"That's the spirit." Mustang kissed his hands and waved to the people as he walked to the podium. "Hello. Hi. Yes. Hi. I'd have sex with you. Hi. Yes. Good. Hello. I'd go to, mm, second base with you. Hi. Hey."

Kimbley, meanwhile, slouched out, then reached down and killed a small child.

The candidates having been introduced, Hughes called on the first plant - err, "perfectly legitimate citizen in the audience."

"Colonel Mustang," the woman called out, "if you were a car, what kind of car would you be?"

Mustang rested his fist against his chin briefly in mock-thought, then said, "Why - the Mustang!"

Everyone giggled appreciatively.

The next question went to Kimbley. "Square root of eighty."

Kimbley thought, then said, "Eight point nine - "

"Bzzzt!" Hughes bellowed. "Time's up. Guess you're not as clever as you claim to be!"

"Mr. Mustang," called out the next person, "do you have some sort of skin-care regimen?"

"Goodness, no. I guess I was just born this lucky."

"How bad _will_you be for this country, Mr. Kimbley?"

Kimbley didn't respond. Instead, he grabbed the bird that had settled lovingly on Mustang's shoulder, turned it into a bomb, and used it to blow up a basket of puppies.

"I love you!" was Mustang's next, giggled question.

"Are you a citizen of Amestris? Then I love you too!"

No one asked a question of Kimbley, fascinated instead by the sight of him picking his nose in full view of the public. And the cameras.

Yes, the Mustang train was a runaway indeed.

"Well, that about wraps it up - " Hughes said, but was stopped by a voice from the audience.

"Colonel Mustang, do you have any comment on this?"

Mustang squinted. "Hawkeye, is that you?"

"_No,_" Hawkeye said quickly. "Lieutenant Hawkeye doesn't wear glasses and I do. See? Glasses! Colonel, I'm looking for your comment on this."

The lights dimmed and the overhead projector came to life. Splayed across the back of the stage was an incredibly detailed and well-drawn depiction of a taller-than-usual Roy brutally kissing a girlier-than-usual Ed.

"Oh my God," Roy said. "Hawkeye, is that a yaoi doujinshi?"

"It's for a friend!" she hissed, then quickly regained her composure and clicked to the next page, then the next. This being a yaoi doujinshi, it took the predicted course of events - minimal plot, blurriness, unfortunate sound effects. It was really quite shocking. For minutes after the last page (which had some imagery involving Roy and angel wings, particularly bizarre in light of the fact that what Roy has been doing would be in most countries classified as rape) was taken off, there was complete silence in the auditorium.

Finally, Roy cleared his throat. "Hawkeye, you are aware that _wasn't real, _right? It was a doujin. That's not canon."

"I know," she groused. "I just want your comment."

"My comment?" he said, then grinned charismatically at the audience. "That was terribly unrealistic. I mean, look at me! Fullmetal, you'd be_begging _for it."

Kimbley's response was to belch and scratch his crotch.

* * *

At first blush, the debate seemed to have been a resounding success. Yet soon the dynamic duo was met with resistance at many public appearances.

"We don't need no alchemy, baby!" someone in the audience bellowed at Edward and Alphonse's appearance in Lior.

"Alchemy baby? What the fuck's an alchemy baby?" Edward asked.

"I think he's talking about Wrath, Brother," Alphonse said.

"Ohh." Edward cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, "It's okay! We hate Wrath too!"

Yet rather than cheer appreciatively at _how fucking annoying Wrath was, _the audience sort of grumbled and shifted and looked at one another. "Rabble rabble," they murmured, "rabble rabble."

Ed wasn't the only one facing hardships. Roy had actually gone so far as to feel a potential donor up under the table when they were seated next to each other at a muckety-muck event, and yet she'd had the gall to say that she was still undecided on whether or not she'd help! And when Roy felt up her husband, the bastard said the exact same thing!

"Gettin' a bad feeling, boss," Havoc said upon returning from his meeting with the tobacco lobby.

"I agree," said Fury, who'd been meeting with the short and boyish lobby.

"Same here," said Falman, who'd just come back from his meeting with the guys-who-are-kind-of-there-and-who-you-kind-of-like-but-you-always-sort-of-wonder-what-exactly-they're-there-for-anyway lobby.

"Mm," agreed Breda, who'd just been at a meeting with the chess lobby. They'd been chased out because the manager of the hotel hated chess nuts boasting in an open foyer.

Roy, though, smiled. He smiled less confidently than he would have if he hadn't just witnessed a thirtysomething reapplying lipstick while he squeezed her knee, but he smiled nevertheless. "We're fine," he said. "What, are we gonna lose to Zolf?"

* * *

And once the latest poll of likely voters came out, he was confident again.

"Leading by twenty points," Mustang sang at increasing volumes until finally Ed threw a rock at him to shut him up. Mustang tried to catch it. That resulted in several minutes of hilarity.

But then the narrative telescoped to the day of the election itself, and Mustang wasn't singing anymore.

"I can't believe this," Mustang said, collapsing into his chair. His voice was strained, his face pale, his left eye missing. "I...lost? How is this possible?"

"You lost?" Edward asked, surprised despite himself. "How do you know?"

"Exit polling, Fullmetal," Mustang said. "Duh. It appears as though I only got forty percent of the vote. It seems as though my scoffing at the yaoi doujinshi situation brought some of the religious types out of the woodwork."

"Do we even _have_religious types in this country?"

"Ishvar."

"Okay, one, aren't they separatists who wouldn't vote anyway, and two, _they voted for Kimbley, who was the guy who blew up their entire civilization?_"

"They really took the doujinshi situation seriously." Mustang fixed himself a whiskey and then tipped in some grain alcohol. "I can't believe this. Hawkeye! Hawkeye!"

"She's not here."

"Hawkeye, bring me my sharpie! I need to make myself depression stubble." But Hawkeye didn't come, so Roy turned towards Fury. "Fury, bring me some scissors. I'm using your hair for a depression beard."

"Don't use my hair for a depression beard."

"I'm using your hair for a depression beard!" Roy bellowed, then buried his face in his hands. "Whyyyyy, whyyyyyy, whyyyyy, whyyyyyyy, whyyyyy - "

But Breda looked up curiously at the television. "Someone turn up the volume on the anachronistic doohickey."

"...surprising upset," Genera K. Nusladi, the premiere reporter in the country, said, "despite the Letoans - who, in early exit polling, were believed to have decided this election - voting as a single bloc on issues, they were unable to agree on the issue of _spelling._"

"Hey," Edward said. Mustang looked up, too blasted to really comprehend what was going on.

"Roy Mustang, early the frontrunner in the race, had suffered due to accusations about his military service and possible promiscuity. Gay, gay promiscuity. Also straight promiscuity. Just general oversexedness. It seemed, early on, as though these issues had cost him the race, causing him to pull a measly forty percent of the vote."

"She means a _sexy_ forty percent, Colonel," Fury said.

"Keep your damn hair."

"I kept your _mom's_hair," Havoc said, then pulled out the lock in question, sniffed it, and wept.

"Shhh!"

"However, this minority turned out to be a _plurality_ when the sixty percent won by his opponent actually turned out to be split evenly among the candidates 'Kimbley,' 'Kimblee,' 'Kimberly,' 'Kimburi,' 'Kimbly,' and 'Broche.' We turn now to our senior political correspondent, Blendin V. Nondescript, to tell us what this means."

Blendin blinked his boring eyes and said, "Well, Genera, it appears that Colonel Mustang will be the winner of this election - "

"Whooooo!" Roy tossed out his drink and poured himself a champagne, then tipped in some wood alcohol. "In your _face, _will of the people! I steal elections like I steal hearts! Damn!"

The whole assembly celebrated. Several people got married. Fury put on a wig and made out with Havoc. Edward and Alphonse made ambiguous comments about one another. Such uninhibited joy could not be long-lived. As the fiercest fire, it must burn itself out.

" - unless, of course, someone were to file a petition for a run-off," Blendin said, "which it appears someone has."

"Goddammit," Roy said. He tossed out his champagne and fixed himself a gin, then tipped in some rubbing alcohol.

* * *

Roy lost that run-off by a significant margin. This was, however, for the best: Kimbley, having won, was summarily executed.

Happy ending!!!


End file.
